The First Trip
by Phyona
Summary: Sherlock and John go on holiday. Sequel to 'The Last Drop' and 'The Temper Between'
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Hello there, you lovely, attractive, brilliant readers, you. Welcome to the final installment in 'The First and Last Trilogy', sequel to 'The Last Drop' and 'The Temper Between' which I highly recommend you read before you dive into this bad boy, that is, if you'd like to have any idea what's going on. I mean, if you enjoy being perpetually confused, that's your journey and I support you in it, but hey, not what I would advise. Anyways, without further ado, I hope you enjoy!**

"That's it! I've had it!" John sneered, stomping up the seventeen stairs to their flat as he ripped free the buttons of his shirt.

"Had what?" Sherlock asked casually from behind him, obnoxiously keeping pace by skipping steps. Bloody infuriating long legs.

"_It_!" John snapped unhelpfully. He was way too frustrated to form a rational thought, let alone voice one.

When he reached the landing, he kicked open their door with a growl and barreled inside. Pulling his shirt free of his trousers, he shrugged it from his shoulders, balled it up, and chucked it in the kitchen bin. Great. And he'd liked that shirt, too.

"You'll have to be a bit more specific, John."

"I'm upset, damnit!" John went to the sink, flicked it on, and began scrubbing from his hands to his elbows. A flicker of memory of the many times he'd washed in a similar manner before a surgery flashed in his mind. He stomped it back down mercilessly.

"I can see that, though I still can't imagine why. The case was most enjoyable."

"_Enjoyable?_" John gritted out, shutting off the water with a fist and turning. A few droplets fell from his hands, splattering onto the floor. "The witness _threw up on me_."

Sherlock, who had removed his jacket and draped it over a forearm, leaned against the kitchen doorway. He looked entirely unsympathetic in a white shirt that was far tighter than it had any right to be.

"What does that matter? We solved the case and it was relatively engaging."

"Well, it wouldn't matter to _you_, would it? With your stupid, perfect, poncey, vomitless suit."

John stomped out of the kitchen, bumping into Sherlock's shoulder a little harder than necessary on the way, and plopped down in his chair. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and trying to wrangle in his irritation. When he felt remotely calm, he looked up to find Sherlock sitting in his own chair in front of him, his jacket hung over the armrest.

"John?" he asked flatly, gazing back at him.

"What?" John murmured, suddenly very aware that he was wearing nothing but a tight black undershirt and his jeans, far less than his usual attire. While he wasn't as fit as he used to be, running around London had done him a few favors, not to mention the bit of weight he'd shed from being sick. He could have looked better, but hey, who couldn't? '_Sherlock_,' his mind offered unhelpfully. In fact, just then the detective chose to catch a particularly flattering shift of light, his cheekbones and smooth skin rendering him altogether otherworldly.

"Are you aware that you have vomit on your trousers as well?" Sherlock asked, shattering his admiration entirely.

John glanced down. The sick had, indeed, spattered more than he'd thought. He glared up at Sherlock with narrowed eyes.

Despite his withering ego, his agitation made him bold.

"Guess I'd better take them off then."

"That would be the logical choice."

"Maybe you should take them off for me," John suggested, hoping his attempt at a vaguely sultry tone didn't fall flat. He locked eyes on Sherlock's face, searching for a reaction, positive or negative, and found nothing.

"Why would I do that? You're perfectly capable of undressing yourself."

John let his head drop back against the chair, and sighed.

"Nevermind, Sherlock."

"Nevermind what?"

"Nevermind everything! That's what you're good at, anyways," John snapped, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, and meeting Sherlock's grey eyes. His aggravation swelled with a vengeance. "Tell me, why did you even bother kissing me in the first place if you had no intention of doing it again once we got back to the real world?"

Other than a minute twitch at the corner of his mouth, Sherlock's expression betrayed nothing.

"The real world?"

"You know what I mean. Once we were no longer bedridden and got back to cases."

Sherlock paused, frowning slightly.

"I've kissed you since then."

"Yeah, a little peck here or there, which _I_ instigated."

"Still kissing."

"No, it's not. I'm talking about real kissing, like 'I have to shove you to the floor before I faint' kind of kissing."

"So, you admit that I made you faint," Sherlock said, smug in the extreme.

John glowered at him.

"And I do intend to kiss you like that again," Sherlock added, voice deep, quiet.

"Oh, really."

"Yes, really."

"Any idea when that might be? Should I write it into my retirement plan?"

"You have a retirement plan?"

"Not the point, Sherlock," John groaned, raking his still-damp fingers through his hair, likely rendering it ridiculously spiky, but he couldn't be bothered to care. At least it distracted from the vomit.

"We had a case. It's not as though I was ignoring you again. I made sure you participated in as much of the process as you usually—"

"Yes, I know, that's not what I'm talking about. We haven't…you haven't…for Christ's sake, we've barely even touched each other since we got better. That was weeks ago."

"Sixteen days."

"Sherlock, I swear to God—"

"I thought you understood that the work took precedent. I couldn't very well push you against a wall at a crime scene and shove my hand down your-"

"I'm not asking you to!" John interrupted, holding up his hands in a halting gesture and trying not to blush himself silly. "I understand that I come second to the case. That's fine—"

"John, wait—"

"No, it is. I get it, I do. I know you. As long as you include me, it's all fine. But you could at least come to bed with me at night."

"I don't sleep much during cases, as you are well aware. What sleep I get, I like to have on the sofa so I can wake easily and return to my thoughts, to the evidence."

John buried his face in his hands, swallowing against the lump in his throat.

"I just don't see how this is going to work."

"What?"

"This." John swished his hand back and forth between them, staring down at the floor. "I don't see how this is going to work."

He looked up at Sherlock in time to watch his jaw clench and his eyes go cold.

"You want to move out."

"What? No! Of course not. Why would you even think that? I just meant the whole…relationship thing." It wasn't what John wanted, of course not, but he was downtrodden, raw, and viciously sexually frustrated.

Sherlock released a slow breath through his nose, lips pursing slightly. His eyes, a crisp turquoise in the evening light, bore into John. While John should have been well accustomed to the scrutiny by now, it still cut into his chest and ripped him open like nothing else.

"Why did you even want a relationship with me anyway?" he asked quietly.

"You know why. I even made you a list. Perhaps you should read it again."

"I've read it plenty," John countered, and coughed. 'Plenty' was a bit of an understatement. He'd read that list, as well as Sherlock's other notes, every night since he and Sherlock had returned to case work. While he knew it was a bit teenage girl of him, he kept finding himself alone in bed, paranoid and touch-starved, the infamous notepad in hand. After a week, the words started to lose their appeal, warping in his mind into something riddled with subtext and hidden motives. He could probably recite the stupid notes by memory if need be.

"Good, then you understand." Sherlock flicked his wrist and settle back in the cushions, as though the conversation was over. John grimaced at the sight of him, realizing that honesty was his only option if he wanted Sherlock to truly hear him.

"No, I don't think I do. I feel…I feel like you only started this relationship thing to keep me from dating anyone else." Sherlock flinched. "Well, I do! If we can't act like…like we're in a relationship whenever you're on a case, and you fall into your black moods in between them, during which you barely speak, I just don't see how you'll ever find time to give me what I need in that regard. And if we never touch or kiss or do anything, then why bother? Why not just stay friends?" The back of John's throat burned as he finished speaking, though he thankfully managed to keep his voice from cracking.

Sherlock appeared to be contemplating John's words very intensely, his hands steepled and pressed against his mouth. His grey eyes darted, scanning over John. For the first time John wished he was still wearing his soiled shirt, as if it would keep him from feeling so entirely exposed.

"What must I do?" Sherlock asked finally, pushing his shoulders back as though he was preparing for John to request that he jump out the window. He looked determined, and a little scary.

"D—do?"

"Yes. To convince you of my intentions. There has to be a way."

"You actually want to?" John asked before he could stop himself. In truth, he hadn't imagined that Sherlock would pursue this whole relationship farce if John started making demands. To his continued surprise, Sherlock looked deeply affronted.

"You expected me to give up." His tone was harsh, pejorative.

"Well, yeah, I guess."

"Wrong."

John groaned.

"Right, okay, fine. You're not giving up. So…um…"

"What do you want?"

John startled at the blunt question. It wasn't exactly like he had a list on hand.

"John?"

"Right, sorry. I'm thinking, alright? Uhh…"

"Would it help if I kissed you?"

John gulped, fidgeting and feeling heat rise in his cheeks.

"Couldn't hurt," he chuckled awkwardly.

Sherlock was on his feet in an instant, closing the distance between them. John leaned back, looking up at him with wide eyes as Sherlock bent over. Steadying himself with a hand on the armrest and sliding his knee between John's thighs, Sherlock brought his mouth close. The tip of his nose grazed John's cheek.

"How would like me to kiss you?" he rasped, breath ghosting over John's mouth, intermingling with his own.

"Um…properly?"

"I assumed, but do you want it slow?" In demonstration, Sherlock brushed his lips delicately against John's. John felt paralyzed, stunned by the intimacy of such a gentle touch. Sherlock took John's bottom lip between his own, feather light, before drawing back. John almost whined at the loss of contact. "Or perhaps a bit deeper?" Sherlock released his grip on the armrest and braced his forearm on the chair back next to John's head. He leaned in and fit their lips together hard, his other hand cupping John's cheek.

The kiss was very different than the delicate teasing of before. It was desperate, needy, demanding. Sherlock's tongue slid across John's lips in silent request, and John acquiesced, letting him in. As soon as their tongues met, a flare of arousal coursed down his spine. He shivered; a reaction he, for once, didn't have the fever to blame for. Reaching out with trembling fingers, he found the lapels of Sherlock's shirt and gripped them tightly. He opened his mouth wider, deepening, pushing back. Sherlock hummed before canting his head to the side, linking them even further.

God, he'd missed this. Since they'd only really kissed a couple of times, everything still felt new, surprising, and even rather overwhelming, if he was being honest with himself.

Yet, just as he was about to laud Sherlock for his consistently masterful kissing ability, a thoroughly unwelcome beep rang out.

Sherlock pulled back instantly, hand releasing John's cheek and diving into his trouser pocket to pull out the mobile.

"Don't you dare," John warned, jerking him a bit.

"But what if it's Lestrade with a case?" Sherlock whined, his lips pink and a little swollen.

"Then he can wait until after we're done."

John pulled Sherlock down as he leaned up, crushing their lips together. He shut his eyes tight, trying to coax their kiss back to the passion they'd shown just moments before.

Sherlock went through the motions, but John sensed, rather than saw, that he was inexplicably distant. When John heard the muffled tapping of mobile buttons, he shoved Sherlock away roughly.

The detective, clearly caught by surprise, stumbled back until he plopped gracelessly into his own chair.

"_What?_" he growled, eyes flaring.

"This just proves that it's not going to work!" John shouted back, crossing his arms against his chest resolutely and planting his feet flat on the ground.

"It doesn't prove anything. You said you understood how important the work is to me."

"Sherlock, the fact that you don't see why I'm so upset just proves my point further."

"You're being absurd."

John resisted the urge to scream, but just barely.

"Let me walk you through it, then. Sherlock, why did you kiss me?"

Sherlock's eyes sharpened as though he sensed a trap.

"To show you what an idiot you were being for suggesting we go back to strictly platonic friendship."

"Good. Well done. Big gold star. Now, why did I suggest that we go back to 'strictly platonic friendship' in the first place?"

"Because you're an idiot."

"_No_. Because I thought you would never take the time to actually do relationship stuff with me."

Sherlock raked his fingers through his curls, huffing irritably. John plowed on.

"And then what did you do the first time we truly kissed in two weeks?"

John swore he could actually _see_ the light turn on behind Sherlock's eyes. The detective sunk back in his cushions, weaving his fingers together on his lap.

"I took a text from Lestrade."

"Yes! He gets it! Someone call the queen! Get the guy a knighthood!" John sniped, gesturing manically.

"Don't mock me," Sherlock bit back, jaw clenched.

John sighed, shoulders sagging. Perhaps he was being a bit unfair.

"Sorry. Just, do you understand now? This can't possibly work."

"No."

"No? You don't understand?"

"Yes, I do understand now. No, I disagree. This can still work."

"I just don't see how."

"How about if I promise? You always like promises. Here, I _promise_ to dedicate time to us," Sherlock vowed, flattening his palm on his chest.

John shook his head.

"I'm sorry, I don't think I can believe you."

John thought a flicker of hurt passed through Sherlock's expression, but he reeled it in too swiftly for him to be sure.

"Another demonstration then."

"It would have to be a pretty fucking good one after your last attempt," John griped.

"Oh, for God's sake, just tell me what would prove it to you, and I'll do it. Stop overcomplicating this. I swear, you try to make things-"

"I want you to take me on holiday," John blurted before he realized what he was saying. Sherlock paused.

"You want me to take you on holiday," he stated flatly. John exhaled slowly, adjusting in his chair.

"Yes."

"I never go on holiday."

"Exactly. I want you, Sherlock Holmes, to take me on holiday to a place of _my_ choosing with no phone, no cases, no London crime scene at all. Just you and me. For three nights."

John had the oddest sensation that his mouth was taking control of the situation, completely without his brain's participation.

A long, heavy silence settled in the sitting room, John's arms still crossed and tense, Sherlock blank and lost in thought.

When Sherlock finally spoke, John nearly fell off his seat from the shock.

"Alright."

"_What?_" He shook his head from side to side in disbelief.

"I said 'alright.' Let's go on holiday."

"You can't be serious."

"On the contrary, I couldn't be more serious. Where do you want to go?"

"Uh…um, well…" John could barely fathom Sherlock agreeing to take him somewhere, let alone where he'd want it to be.

"Don't tell me you haven't thought about it," Sherlock groaned, clearly getting bored.

John said the first thing that came to mind.

"Cornwall! I want to go to Cornwall, always have. And I want to stay by the beach."

"It's late May."

"I don't care."

"And it's six hours away."

"It's Cornwall or nothing," John stated, sticking up his chin and looking as stubborn as physically possible.

Sherlock stared, running the side of his thumb across his bottom lip in contemplation. Then, slow and devious, a smile curled at the corner of his mouth.

"Cornwall it is."

John flinched, wondering just what he'd gotten himself into.

**Author's Note: ** **Next chapter to come soon. At the moment I'm bopping between writing this and my potterlock piece, 'The Pensieve of Sherlock Holmes', which is a retelling of the The Prince's Tale featuring Sherlock and John. If you're interested, you can find it on my profile page.**

**Just for the record, this fic wouldn't have come nearly this far if it weren't for the magnificent support I've received from you readers/reviewers. This is all for you (or at least, like, 3/4 of it is for you and the rest is just to satiate my inherent need to write slashy Johnlock). See you soon!  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Woohoo, chapter 2! It's about to get pretty porny all up ins, so hold onto your butts. I think I even used the word 'cock' this time. Did I use it? I think I did. I was at least using it in my mind. Still counts. Look it up.**

"I despise packing," Sherlock bleated from where he lay sprawled in a heap on his bed. John gritted his teeth, slamming one of Sherlock's dresser drawers shut and pulling open another.

"Well, then aren't you lucky that I have absolutely no pride and am doing it for you. Now, how many pairs of socks do you want?"

"None."

"Not an option."

"Twenty-six."

"You…you want twenty-six pairs of socks."

"Seventy-eight."

"Are you just going to keep saying random numbers until I give up and decide for you?"

"Three hundred and ninety-four point six."

John shot Sherlock's pouting figure a glare over his shoulder before selecting a perfectly reasonable amount of socks and dropping them into Sherlock' sleek, black duffle. He walked to the edge of the bed, put his hands on his hips, and stared down at his ornery flatmate.

"Alright, that should do it for clothes and toiletries. We gotta hurry up or we'll miss the train. Is there anything else you want?"

"Can you pack the jar of larynxes in the fridge?"

John twitched.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because we're going to a nice place, Sherlock, thanks to your brother and absolutely no thanks to you."

"Uggh, _God_, I can't believe you called him," Sherlock grumbled, throwing his forearm over his eyes dramatically.

"He owed me a favour."

"At least pack my mould samples if you insist on humiliating me for the sake of eating out of my brother's fat hand."

John took a slow breath, looking up at the ceiling and collecting himself before he did something rash and likely violent.

"Sherlock, don't test me. No body parts, no mould, no experiments. You promised."

"Did I? I did. Why did I? Perhaps I'd remember if you kissed me," Sherlock said, shifting his arm and appraising John with one grey-green eye.

"Nice try." God, the man could be persistent when he felt like it.

"You haven't kissed me in eight days," Sherlock registered, as though John could have possibly forgotten.

"I told you. No kissing, no touching, no relationship stuff until you actually take me on holiday." It was a restriction that probably should have bothered John even more than Sherlock, but for some reason was working remarkably well in his favour. After spending two weeks sexually frustrated out of his gourd, it was very vindicating to watch Sherlock struggle with rejection. Nothing made Sherlock want something more than telling him he couldn't have it.

While Sherlock's irritation was a satisfying consolation, John's reasoning for the no-touching rule was strictly for the purpose of guarding his own sanity. The more Sherlock put his hands on him, the deeper he found himself falling. It was his last attempt at self preservation.

"You're being completely unreasonable, John. And what am I supposed to do at this bloody hotel? I'll be bored out of my mind in minutes, and then you'll get angry with me and won't let me kiss you, anyways."

"It's what I want, Sherlock, and you said you'd do whatever I asked. Why don't I pack you some books. What books would you like?"

"Doesn't matter," Sherlock said fatalistically, clearly resigned to be miserable.

"Fine." John grabbed the duffle and stormed into the living room. He went to the pile of books beside his chair, the first ones he saw, and swept them off the side table and into the bag. Just as he finished zipping up Sherlock's duffle and dropping it next to his own by the sofa, Sherlock emerged from his room.

"John," Sherlock said, adjusting his jacket and coming to stand the kitchen doorway.

"You know, you don't have to do this. I'm not making you."

"I know you're not," Sherlock sighed, walking up to him and taking his upper arms in hand. "I want to. This," he said, indicating between the two of them, "is preferable and I intend to prove it to you." He leaned forward slowly, clearly wary of scaring John off, and placed a light kiss on his cheek. John was surprised when he stepped back rather than try to claim his mouth again. He'd witnessed some pretty creative maneuvers over the last weeks in Sherlock's attempt to undermine John's rule (the most appalling of which being when Sherlock pretended stop breathing so John would give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. John was not amused). "Besides, if Mycroft booked the accommodation it's sure to be very comfortable and repulsively opulent."

"Oh, most definitely. Now, we'll miss the train if we don't leave in a few minutes. It's almost ten. For the last time, are you sure you want to do this?"

Sherlock picked up his duffle, swinging it over his shoulder.

"Positive."

John fought to conceal a giddy smile as they made their way out of the flat and to the curb to hail a cab.

* * *

"You have got to be kidding me," Sherlock scoffed when they swung open the door to their sleeper compartment.

"I think it's neat," John remarked, stepping into the small room and dropping his canvas duffle to the floor. He put his hands on his hips and looked around. While the room was, indeed, cozy, there was a certain appeal. John had always wanted to stay in an overnight train, his brain supplying images more applicable for an Agatha Christie novel rather than the plastic aesthetic of the 'Night Riviera.'

The amenities of the room were minimal. There was a modest washbasin below the window, a shelf, and a couple drawers. Two suspended twin beds, one above the other, took up the whole of one wall. John would fit on his mattress comfortably, but he imagined Sherlock wouldn't be so lucky. Served him right for being so damn tall.

"If by 'neat' you mean 'deplorable.' I thought you said Mycroft helped you book this."

"He did. I'm the one who wanted the sleeper train. Normally you have to reserve twelve weeks in advance. Mycroft sped up the process."

"I feel like I'm in a cell. This has to be a rare form of torture."

John rounded on him, anger flaring.

"Then why don't you go to the lounge car if you hate it so much. I'm tired, I'm going to sleep…in my perfectly comfortable bed," he added spitefully.

He attempted to turn gracefully and sit on the lower bed. Unfortunately, he cracked his head with a resounding thud on the bottom of the other one above it in the process. Rubbing the spot, where a lump was sure to form, he did everything in his power to keep from looking at Sherlock. He lasted about ten seconds before curiosity forced him to glance up.

Sherlock was, of course, smirking.

"Comfortable?"

"Shut up," John gritted and began unbuttoning his shirt.

Sherlock left the room more elegantly than usual, likely just to spite him.

By the time John undressed down to his boxers,abandoning his shirt since the compartment was much warmer than he was accustomed to, and slid between the bedclothes, he was thoroughly dispirited. The trip was already going less than splendidly, though he wasn't sure exactly what he'd expected. This wasn't Sherlock's area in any regard. Still, he was hoping for a kind of honeymoon period, no distractions, no intrusions. Now he was in bed alone, just as he had been for weeks, and Sherlock was off doing God knows what in the lounge without him. If it wasn't for the white noise of the train riding the track, he never would have found sleep. As it was, he was dreaming within minutes of grey eyes and pale skin and black hair.

* * *

He woke with a groan at the disturbance of Sherlock crawling on top of him in the dark. Lying on his stomach, face pressed into the pillow, John tried to squirm against the weight on his back and found he could hardly move.

"Bed's too small," he mumbled, still half sunk in sleep. He hadn't opened his eyes yet but he could tell from the expanse of smooth skin against his own that Sherlock was wearing naught but his pants. "Get in your own."

"But we're on holiday now, John. Couples sleep in the same bed," Sherlock murmured, voice low, right in John's ear.

"Only if they fit. You're heavy," John choked back, finding it difficult to focus. His head was foggy with drowsiness, his body limp.

Sherlock shifted slightly to the side towards the wall so that he was only half mounted on John's back, his legs straddling one of John's thighs.

"Better?"

"A little. Do I even want to know what you've been up to?"

'Most assuredly not."

"Good, that's good," John muttered dreamily, drifting further towards sleep.

In a moment, however, he was drawn back by the press of lips below his ear, soft at first but growing in fervor. Sherlock's palm trailed down his side, stroking pointedly at his flank. Soft curls brushed against his cheek.

"Sherlock, timing."

"Problem?"

Without waiting for an answer, though John wasn't sure he had one, Sherlock slipped his hand between John's pelvis and the mattress, cupping the bulge of his boxers gently. John squirmed at the touch. He pushed back up into the heavy body, and realized, with a quiet gasp, that Sherlock was hard against his rear.

"_Jesus_," John breathed.

Sherlock nuzzled below the angle of John's jaw and hummed contemplatively.

"Your scent is particularly concentrated here," his voice rumbled, before he returned to kissing, licking. "Perhaps due to the pulse point."

"That's some very creative pillow talk, Sher—" John broke off when Sherlock's fingers squeezed around him, causing him to rock back impulsively. Sherlock gasped into his neck and pushed in return, grinding his hips, rubbing himself against John's backside.

For a fleeting moment, John wondered if the presence of an erect penis other than his own should have been bizarre, but in his somnolent state, he found that the strangeness rendered everything more erotic than nerve-wracking. Without his mind fully online, reminding him of his inexperience and insecurities, everything was reduced to pure sensation. He decided to roll with it, closing his eyes and giving into instinct.

Sherlock, seeming to read his complacency, drew his hand up, found the band of John's pants, and slid in. John whimpered, canting his hips up to grant him more room, as Sherlock clutched him, skin on skin.

'You've been punishing me," Sherlock rasped. He adjusted his grip, fingers wrapping perfectly as John swelled.

"I—I don't…what?" Coherency was fast abandoning him as Sherlock tugged his foreskin down his shaft, exposing the glans. Coupled with the scrape of the rough sheet below him, John's nerves were sent into a frenzy. He was starting to tremble, to lose control. Apparently sensory overload wasn't specific to their first fever-addled intimate encounter. Perhaps this was just what Sherlock did to him, would always do to him.

"Banning me from touching you in an act of revenge. You liked watching me struggle, frustrating me, didn't you?"

John gulped, his breath coming quick and ragged.

"Admit it," Sherlock growled, and began stroking, up and down, slow and tight.

"I—I didn't—" Sherlock rolled his hips forward, pushing John into the circle of his hand, and then drawing back. In a quick, smooth movement, Sherlock re-situated himself between John's legs so that their whole bodies were flush together. Braced on his forearm, he unraveled John's hand where it was knotted in the sheets and weaved their fingers together.

"You can't lie to me. You can never lie to me," Sherlock whispered into the shell of his ear, punctuating with a thrust of his pelvis. The press of Sherlock's hardness, now centered in the curve of John's arse, flooded him with sensation. This was far more intimate, more demanding, than before. He was being claimed from every direction, guided by the churn of Sherlock's hips into the grip of Sherlock's hand. He bit down on his pillow, muffling a moan, and clenched Sherlock's hand in an iron hold. Was this what their position would be like if he let Sherlock take him completely? He'd never even thought about letting another person do that to him, yet there Sherlock was, riding him with nothing but their pants between them. The idea made him dizzy, disjointed.

" Sh-Sherlock, I—"

"Yes, it's alright," he soothed, as though John were some wild animal.

"But—"

"Shhh, let me prove it to you. I want to prove it to you."

Sherlock's tempo was unflinching, and John, still so drowsy it all felt more like an erotic dream than a reality, let him take control. When it came down to it, John trusted Sherlock implicitly. There was no question of that, no need for contemplation or hesitation. It was a base instinct. Primal.

Sherlock rewarded him with a perfect swirl of his thumb before quickening his pace. His hips undulated fiercely against John's rear, so that John had to grab hold of the metal bedpost to hold himself steady.

Sherlock began nipping at his pulse point, breath humid. John shuddered. Pleasure was coiling in his belly and groin, his eyes shut so tight that white spots were ghosting across the black. His awareness sharpened to nothing but the palm of Sherlock's hand, the huff of breath by his ear, the hum of the train riding the tracks. His face was burning, he knew, heat rising with each graze of teeth, with each thrust.

"John."

"Sherlock," he cracked, then whimpered.

"Can I?" He nipped once more, suggestively, and John was delirious with it, bewildered, as his pleasure started to crest.

"Yes, anything," he moaned into the moist fabric of his pillow.

And just as his orgasm crowned, sending him arching, legs shaking, Sherlock bit down. Pain and pleasure coalesced at just the right intensity, sending John keening, broken open and laid bare. He rolled his hips back mercilessly against Sherlock's cock, as warm wetness bloomed in his pants and spilled onto Sherlock's hand.

When the last pulsations waned, John collapsed on the bed, turning his head to the side and looking up at Sherlock with one half-lidded eye. Sherlock pushed himself up, extracting his hand from John's pants and plunging it into his own. He stroked himself, once, twice, keeping his eyes locked on John. With a final pull Sherlock groaned, releasing himself into the cotton, his face breaking into the most beautiful expression of bliss John had ever seen.

Sherlock fell forward, heavy, onto John's back, his face settling on the pillow next to John's, arm draped haphazardly around him.

They stared at each other, panting and groggy and sated, until the haze faded and their senses returned.

"Sherlock?" John murmured.

"Mmm."

"Next time we take the pants off before we fool around, or I'm going to run out before this trip is over."

"Noted. May I also request that we remove said pants before they permanently fuse to our bodies?"

With heavy limbs they stripped off their soiled boxers, or, in Sherlock's case, boxer briefs, and settled back beneath the covers of the bed, Sherlock pressed up against the wall and holding John, front to back, in his arms.

"Still too small," John muttered, exhausted and finding that, despite his need to register the complaint, he didn't much care about how undersized their bed was or how completely bare they both were. Warm and absurdly happy, he drifted into sleep.

* * *

The first few things John was aware of when waking found him was that he was stiff, sticky, and a bit too warm. He blinked his eyes open and was instantly confused by his surroundings until he realized that he was, in fact, in a sleeper car, with Sherlock's arm draped around his chest.

"Sherlock, Christ, why did I let you sleep—"

Sherlock clamped his palm over John's mouth, silencing him.

"Too early."

Suddenly, perhaps from the sound of Sherlock's voice, John became hyper aware of how completely, raving starkers they both were. His eyes widened, his pulse quickened. Without the veil of darkness and half-sleep, everything seemed far too real by early morning light.

"Um…uh…" John stuttered, now fully awake and going rigid.

"Yes, we're naked. Yes, we're touching each other. Yes, you find me extremely attractive. Now, stop having a sexuality crisis and go back to sleep." Sherlock planted a smacking kiss on the back of John's neck and went completely limp behind him.

John exhaled, closing his eyes and trying to find the same contentment. Yet, the more he willed himself back to sleep, the more active his mind became. It was no use. He opened one eye and glanced at the digital clock in the corner. 06:30. Ah. Time to get up anyways.

Taking hold of Sherlock's hand, John tried to unhinge Sherlock's grip and extricate himself from the bed. The strangest disgruntled growl rumbled from behind him and Sherlock's arm tightened stubbornly, barring John's escape.

"Sherlock, let me go. We have to get up."

"No."

Sherlock shifted and clutched John's bad shoulder with just enough pressure to keep from hurting, but still latching on resolutely. John wriggled, grabbing the edge of the bed and trying to pull himself free. They were practically wrestling by the time he managed to get his footing on the mattress and kick off, hard. Unfortunately, he only succeeded in sending both of them tumbling to the floor in a heap of limbs and naked skin. John landed on his stomach with a breathy grunt, Sherlock flush on his back, pinning him.

"Ow," John grumbled.

"You brought this on yourself, Watson," Sherlock muttered right in his ear, adjusting until seemingly satisfied, his hands shackling John's wrists to the scratchy carpet.

"This is really uncomfortable," John said to the floor.

"On the contrary, I'm perfectly content. Now, shut up and don't be so selfish. I'm trying to sleep."

"Ha! That's rich coming from you. Seriously, shove off, Sherlock, or I'm gonna get rug burn."

"If I touch you will you stop whinging?" Sherlock whispered, dragging a hand down John's arm and side to grip his hip.

John's breath caught in his throat.

"Are—are you trying to bribe me with sexual favours?"

"Only if you're amenable."

"In most circumstances, yes, probably, but the train is going to get in soon."

"Your loss," Sherlock sighed, rolling off him and onto his back. "You would've gotten the better end of the deal."

"Our relationship isn't going to be founded in bartering," John reprimanded, pushing himself to a sitting position.

"Then we're going have to invert the nature of our friendship entirely. You clean, wash dishes, and do all that other tripe while I perform the real detective work and try not to get too irritated with your persistent dullness."

John flinched and scowled at him, getting to his feet. He grabbed his canvas duffle, riffling through it roughly for clothes, desperate to not be so naked anymore.

"I'm glad you think so bloody highly of me," he snapped, dragging out a pair of fresh boxers and stumbling into them. Once covered, he was able to rally his confidence. "Here I thought we were making compromises. How silly of me for not realizing we had a business arrangement." He shrugged into a shirt, fumbling with the buttons in his agitation.

"Oh, for God's sake, that's not what I meant," Sherlock groused, crossing his arms over his eyes, seemingly oblivious to his own nudity. John briefly thought that he'd never known anyone so completely _not_ body conscious, even in the army.

"Then you shouldn't have said it. You know, you can't just…you have to…" John stammered as he awkwardly pulled on his jeans and tried not to keel over.

"What, John?"

"_Think_ before you speak." He fastened the button and flies, wincing when he wasn't as gentle as he should have been.

Sherlock sat up abruptly, turning to level John with a glare. John faltered. His focus would have been a lot easier to maintain if there wasn't so much obnoxiously pale, smooth skin to distract him.

"I _always_ think before I speak."

"Think about _me_, I mean."

Sherlock ruffled his unruly black curls in exasperation before launching himself to his feet and rounding on John. He stepped right into John's space, gaze bearing down on him and smoldering.

"I think about you constantly," he bit out, flashing his teeth.

John swallowed loudly.

"You do?"

"_Constantly_," he reiterated harshly, taking John's lips in a bruising kiss.

John's arms unconsciously wrapped around Sherlock's shoulders as he went up on his toes and leaned into him.

Sherlock broke away after a few moments, meeting John's dazed, dark blue eyes.

"We'd better get ready," he said emotionlessly, turning from John to search his own duffle.

John's arms hung suspended in mid air awkwardly for a beat, before he returned to his senses, shook off the glaze of arousal, and returned to his bag.

"That's what I was saying," he grumbled with not nearly as much spite as he'd intended. It seemed that even when Sherlock didn't get the last word, he really did.

**Author's Note: Actually _I_ get the last word because I'm the author and I say so. Nananafoofoo. Wow, I totally showed myself, there, didn't I. We arrive at our destination next chapter, obviously. I'm probably going to write a chapter of 'The Pensieve of Sherlock Holmes' before I dive back into this bruiser, though. Sherlock and John are getting sorted. It's like kind of a big deal (to me). **

**As always, thank you so much for the reviews. They make my whole entire life (which is in no way pathetic, I swear. Just pathetically awesome. So awesome, it's pathetic). Cheers!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** **Ohh, boy. I'm in the doghouse, aren't I? This took far too long to get to you readers, I know. I'm a cretin. Would it at all excuse if I said I've started two new jobs and got sickfic-level-ill twice in the last month? No? Can't say I didn't try. I'll go stand in the corner now and think about what I haven't done while you (hopefully) enjoy. PS: I love you like Hobbits love the taste of strawberries.  
**

John was quiet for the better part of the taxi ride, gazing happily out the window at the vast, rocky shore of the Cornwall coast. As the vehicle swerved down the winding road, passing an occasional beach or cottage, John contemplated that it had been far too long since he'd left the city. While the somewhat barren isolation of Cornwall was jarring after spending so much time in the cramped center of London, it was also relieving. He sighed contentedly before he could help himself. Perhaps his doubts about the trip were unfounded.

"You're enjoying this," Sherlock said quietly, interrupting his reverie.

John nodded and leaned on his hand, eyes locked on the white crests of the waves as though the sea itself might disappear if he should look away. Sherlock, in one of his more generous gestures, left him to his thoughts for a few long moments.

Yet, just as John began feeling totally relaxed, the view, hum of the cab, and lack of sleep lulling him into a kind of trance, Sherlock startled him with a hand on his forearm. John's eyes snapped to him.

"That's the hotel, I believe," Sherlock said, indicating through his window to a hill in the distance. Shifting closer to him, John pressed against Sherlock's side to better see the object of his attention.

The lone structure was more mansion than hotel. It was massive, crafted from red and tan stone with intricate detailing and large, floor-length windows. Balconies, smoke stacks, and decorative towers punctuated the sweeping architecture. The damn thing was one step away from a castle. John's throat went dry.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

John nodded, but then turned an incredulous frown on the detective.

"Wait, you haven't been here before, have you? Damnit, Sherlock, the idea was for us to go somewhere you knew nothing about. That's why I had Mycroft—"

"I assure you I've neither seen nor heard of this establishment before."

"Then how did you—wait, wait, don't tell me. You deduced it from the type of mortar used in the masonry, am I right? Or perhaps the shaving style of our cabby."

"No."

"Enlighten me, then, I know you want to. What was it?"

"You told the driver the name of the hotel. I saw a sign."

John blinked.

"Oh."

"We're coming up on it now!" announced the cabby, seemingly oblivious to their conversation.

The corner of Sherlock's lip quivered with a barely suppressed smirk. John glared and shoved him playfully in the shoulder. In what must have been a gut reaction, Sherlock pushed John back so hard that he almost tipped over completely on the seat. The competitive soldier in John rose to the surface instantly and within moments they were wrestling up against Sherlock's door.

"Oi! Play nice back there, kiddies!" interrupted the cabby, jarring John back to his late thirties and causing both of them to freeze. Only then did he realize the precarious position he'd gotten himself into. He was half-sitting in Sherlock's lap, their mouths so close that each breath mingled together, with his hand gripped high on Sherlock's thigh. In an attempt to gather himself John cleared his throat, blushing furiously when only a clipped chirp broke free.

"Always so flustered," Sherlock whispered low, amused, and arching an eyebrow. He scanned John's face with a penetrating gaze. "Again, I did not predict John 'three-continents' Watson would be this affected. Or is this just another reaction that's specific to me?"

John bristled instantly. Growling, he slid roughly from Sherlock's lap and put as much distance between them as possible.

"I told you not to call me that." He looked back out his window.

"You used to be proud of it."

"I am," he snapped, shooting him a glare before turning away again. "Just not when you say it."

"Interesting," Sherlock murmured. John did not like the tone of the word. Somehow, it promised that the subject would be returned to in the future. Could Sherlock let nothing go?

"We're here!" declared the cabby just as the vehicle slowed to a stop. Sherlock immediately swung his door open, hardly waiting for the parking brake to be cocked, and barreled out. John sat for a moment, feeling a bit startled, until the driver opened his door for him.

Once out on the cobblestones, John craned his neck to take in the hotel's sweeping face, finding it even more imposing from close up. Never in his life had he stayed in such opulent accommodation. He wondered if Mycroft had over-estimated how much his side of the favour was worth. John had requested "simple, comfortable, and with a view of the sea," damnit. Not "posh, lavish, and with a royal title included." He'd be having words with the other Holmes when they returned.

Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed impervious to the splendor. His brow was pulled together, hands wedged firmly in his pockets, with a twitch of impatience in his step. When John began approaching the boot to help carry their luggage, Sherlock chided him.

"Come on, John, leave the bags. They'll take care of them for us. It's what they're paid to do," Sherlock snipped.

"Alright, alright. What's the rush, huh?" John sighed, coming up to his side and almost placing a placating hand on Sherlock's lower back before he thought better of it. They hadn't yet established how public this 'relationship' of theirs was going to be. John hadn't even personally mulled over what he preferred yet: secrecy or open acknowledgment, though he would probably lean towards privacy. Their business was their business.

He followed Sherlock's commanding stride through the large double doors leading to the hotel foyer. Sherlock approached the front desk, which was gold and decorated with vases of elaborate bouquets, possessing all the confidence of someone who had stayed there a thousand times before. Still, John trusted him when he insisted he hadn't. Sherlock simply had a way of owning every room he entered. This was nothing new.

"Room under John Watson," Sherlock barked at the concierge, a young, pretty girl with a toothy smile, and indicated John with a thumb. She immediately began typing away, seemingly oblivious to the gruffness of Sherlock's tone.

The girl brightened slightly when it she pulled their information up.

"Oh, yes. You'll be staying in one of our best coastal view suites. Very exclusive."

John rubbed a hand over his eyes and sighed quietly. Sodding Mycroft.

"I'll just need a credit card from one of you to keep on file for any additional charges."

"Fine. Take mine," Sherlock said, sounding put-upon, before fishing his card from his wallet and flinging it across the smooth marble of the front desk top. The girl caught it with a practiced air, typing at her computer so fast she could rival Sherlock's on one of his slow days.

"Here you are, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," she said politely, handing the card back to him when she was finished.

"Sherlock Holmes?" interrupted a bemused voice from behind them. John and Sherlock whirled around immediately to identify its owner. "_The_ Sherlock Holmes?"

The man, tall and slender with elegantly curled blonde hair, approached them with his arms outstretched, a wide, beaming smile on his lips.

"V-Victor," Sherlock stuttered. John's wide eyes shot to him.

Now, John was rather proud that out of all the people Sherlock was acquainted with, he was the one to have seen the widest range of expressions play on that strictly controlled, stoic face. It was rather like a privilege. Yet, never in all their time together, had he seen such a look on his flatmate. Sherlock, as he'd accused John of being so many times, was positively flustered.

"None other! How have you been, old friend?" The man called Victor took Sherlock in a short, unreturned embrace before pulling away and patting him affectionately on the arm. "It's been far too long."

John tensed involuntarily at the unexpected display of physical affection and familiarity. _Old friend? _he thought dryly, the words odd and ill-fitting as they buffeted around his mind.

Suddenly, he was unavoidably aware of just how attractive this Victor character was. He had large, green eyes, accented with unusually flattering crow's feet. His cheekbones were high, though not as sharp as Sherlock's, his smile dazzling and his clothes perfectly-tailored and expensive. John automatically stretched to his full height, holding his head high and pushing his shoulders back, though it did little to match him with the two tall, obnoxiously good-looking men now completely ignoring his existence.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, more bewildered than acerbic. John did not appreciate his tone in the slightest.

"Bit of a business venture, I'm afraid. Wish I could be here for strictly pleasure, but you know how it is. Company can't run itself, as much as I want it to." Sherlock nodded conspiratorially and John glared. What the hell did Sherlock know about it? The only times he ever set foot near a company was when an employee had been murdered. "But what about you? Here on a case, I assume."

"Oh. Not quite." For the first time since Victor's appearance Sherlock glanced at John, looking at him as though he'd forgotten his presence entirely. John clenched his jaw.

"Oh goodness, I'm sorry. We're being terribly rude. Allow me to introduce myself," a welcoming hand was extended to John, who took it firmly, unflinching, "I'm Victor Trevor. Sherlock and I were at Uni together."

"Dr. John Watson." The honourific of 'doctor' came out before he could help it. He never usually introduced himself as such and realized, far too belatedly, that Sherlock would notice and deduce why immediately. Bugger.

Victor looked expectantly, a question in his eyes, from John to Sherlock and back again.

"He's my colleague," Sherlock stated flatly. John winced.

Well, okay, so they hadn't discussed how they were going to identify their relationship to other people, to be fair (negligence that he was greatly regretting at the present) but that justification did little to curb the swift ache of rejection now swelling in his chest. 'Colleague' was a little better than 'assistant' but far worse than 'flatmate' or 'friend.' Why didn't he just call him 'some random bloke I just pulled off the street' while he was at it?

"I've never known you to have a colleague before," Victor remarked, smirking mildly.

"Well, I—"

Sherlock was interrupted by the concierge clearing her throat loudly behind them.

"Your keys, gentlemen," she said, holding out two white keycards, "just in case you separate." John snatched the keys before Sherlock could grab them, smug at the opportune reveal that they were sharing a room and not lodging separately. From Victor's raised eyebrows, he noticed the distinction. "I'll have your bags brought up straight away," the girl added before turning to assist another patron.

"Well, I'd better leave you to it," Victor said, smiling politely. "Hopefully I'll see you two around. It was nice to meet you, Dr. Watson." While John couldn't be certain, he thought Victor had annunciated the word 'doctor' a little too acutely to be accidental.

"Likewise," John replied tonelessly. Victor gave Sherlock's arm one last pat before walking away.

John turned to Sherlock, fighting to meet his eyes and demand answers to the swarm of questions now bombarding his thoughts, but Sherlock would have none of it.

"Come along, then," he muttered, striding for the lifts with the kind of determination usually reserved for casework.

They stood in the carpeted lift silently, alone, as it ascended, John's arms crossed tightly against his chest. When the 'ding' chimed, announcing that they'd reached the top floor where their suite resided, Sherlock squeezed between the doors just as they began to glide open. He walked quickly, using the full advantage of his long legs to distance himself from John. He only seemed to realize that John did, in fact, hold the keys when he was in front of their door. 'The Shell Suite' it read.

John was deliberately slow in his movements as he extracted the white card from his pocket and purposefully fumbled with sliding it in and out of the slot. He got way too much enjoyment out of watching Sherlock get riled up over his incompetence. Good. The man deserved a little frustration.

When they finally made it into their room, John almost forgot his qualms with Sherlock in favour of being absolutely spellbound by the state of their suite. It was beautiful. The far wall, which was curved, was almost entirely composed of floor to ceiling windows, offering a staggering view of the sea. There were expensive couches and chairs, a king size bed, and everything was patterned in matching blue-green and eggshell tones. Nautical designs and seashell décor riddled about the room sought to remind, in no uncertain terms, that this was, indeed, on the ocean and that the view was well paid for.

"Christ," John exclaimed breathily. "Sure beats the bedsit."

Sherlock grumbled in reply. John shut the door behind them and rounded on him, his irritation at Sherlock's unimpressed response reminding him that he had very good reason to be cross with the detective.

"So, Victor Trevor, huh," John said, crossing his arms and planting his feet, his default position when it came to addressing Sherlock. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock stomped across the room, flinging himself on the once perfectly made bed and draping his forearm over his eyes.

"Get on with it, then," the detective groaned, exhaling dramatically.

"Get on with what, exactly?"

"You're perfectly aware."

"Excuse me?"

"I know you're cross with me and while I haven't the faintest what your erroneous justification might be, I'm confident you'll explain it until I'd rather feign repentance than bear the affliction of conversation any longer."

John's mouth fell open. Whatever he'd been expecting Sherlock to say, that certainly wasn't it.

"I…see," he said quietly. "Right."

His lips parted to say more but the words wouldn't come. His brain kept stuttering to start each sentence, but after what Sherlock had so ruthlessly predicted of him he didn't have the wherewithal to begin. Why bother when he was apparently doomed to fail?

"Then…I'll just—" John walked quickly across the room to what he assumed was the bathroom, shutting the door behind him as fast as he could. He stood there, fists clenched and white, back tense, and released a slow exhale. He wasn't sure what it was about Sherlock's words that had ripped the rug out from under him so, but there he was, alone in the bathroom, having difficulty evening his breathing. Perhaps it was the sudden, jarring distance Sherlock had thrust between them, made worse by the 'colleague' comment and the appearance of a certain gorgeous 'old friend.' He had the very juvenile, fleeting thought of "he doesn't like me anymore" before he staunchly beat it down and brought Captain Watson back to the front.

There. He was fine. It was all fine. Sherlock was just being Sherlock. Nothing unusual.

He wiggled his fingers, putting feeling back into them, and stretched his neck a bit. Just as he was about ready to brave the sharp tongue of his flatmate once more, there was a faint knock on the door.

"John."

John cleared his throat and took hold of the door handle, wrenching it open. Sherlock was standing there, coat having been removed, with his eyes cast down at the floor and hands clasped behind his back.

"Yeah?"

"Okay?" he asked impassively, but shuffled slightly on his feet.

"Fine. I was just…I was just going to take a bath," he lied, though as he thought of it the idea was rather appealing. The tub behind him was enormous and beckoning, fully stocked with various soaps, salts, and sponges.

"A bath."

"Yeah."

"Is your shoulder bothering you?"

John startled at the question. It was the closest to an apology John was ever going to get for Sherlock's comment. A remotely caring inquiry from Sherlock Holmes was the equivalent of forty dozen roses and a chocolate-scented life-size teddy bear named 'Cuddles' from anyone else. John would take it, for the time being, but that didn't mean he'd let the subject drop. He could be just as stubborn as Sherlock when he set his mind to it.

"A little." It wasn't untrue. Sleeping in a cramped overnight train cot with far too much detective wasn't exactly recommended for poorly-healed bullet wounds. His penis, on the other hand (/in another hand), would disagree, but that was neither here nor there.

"I could…that is, if you're amenable, I could join you."

John blinked a few times, surprised not only by the request but by how coy Sherlock was being in the asking. It was almost bizarre.

"Sure you won't be bored?"

"No. But I'm optimistic."

"Then I suppose I'm amenable."

Tentatively, Sherlock stepped forward, coming so close that his front was almost flush with John's. He hung his head, breath blowing hot against John's ear, curls brushing John's cheek, but kept his hands behind his back. When John couldn't restrain himself anymore, he gripped Sherlock's waist with both hands, pulling him closer. Sherlock nuzzled the curve of his jaw and hummed contemplatively.

"You have questions."

"Many."

"They will be easier to answer when you're naked."

John felt his neck flushing at the deep words, murmured into his ear.

"Easier to answer, or easier to distract me from?"

"Six in one, half dozen in the other."

John offered a short laugh, but held his ground.

"You underestimate me."

"Never," Sherlock said, frowning playfully, and finally taking John in his arms. Just before their lips met, John halted him.

"Is this appropriate behaviour between 'colleagues'?" he asked, letting a bit of acid seep into the words.

Sherlock paused, but didn't back away. His eyes blazed silver down at John.

"I'm not sure, _doctor_, but if you intend to interrogate me about what transpired in the lobby, the clothes are coming off first."

John shrugged.

"Fair enough."

**Author's Note: More to come super soon this time, I promise. I had a huge epiphany in the shower about this fic and now I'm super stoked to write on. I love you readers so much I'd give you forty dozen roses and a chocolate-scented life-size teddy bear named 'Cuddles' if I could. Pinky swear.**

**Oh, also, in case you're wondering if this hotel actually exists, it totally does. When I got the idea for this fic I said to myself "I really want them to stay at that place from 'The Witches' movie." Thank you google for making that happen. Anyone know what I'm talking about? Roald Dahl? Rowan Atkinson? Anjelica Huston? Solid gold, amirite?**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Today is my fifth anniversary with the John to my Sherlock (or Sherlock to my John...haven't quite decided that one yet)! Can't imagine a better way to celebrate than by posting my writing, since this never would have happened without him. He's my editor, my greatest supporter, and my best friend. Thank you, dear, for not judging me for all the gay porn. **

John turned towards the bath, ignoring the involuntary twinge of disapproval his nerves shot him at severing contact with Sherlock. Sometimes he swore his body hated him. Perhaps it had never quite forgiven him for getting shot.

Placing a hand on the side of the gaping tub to steady himself, he reached for the nozzle. Just before rotating it, he said, "But, even if I'm naked, we're not doing anything sexual until my questions are answered." The rush of water muffled the growl of disapproval behind him and John smirked. Any opportunity to exert some power over Sherlock was one he would eagerly take, rare as those chances were.

When John rose upright his back pressed up against Sherlock's hard chest, the man having strategically inserted himself close behind him. He shivered at the warm breath against his ear, but didn't turn to face him.

"Wouldn't you prefer to multitask?" Soft lips were pressed to his neck and John had the disconcerting notion that Sherlock might be stealthily taking his pulse by mouth to gauge his reaction. It certainly wasn't beyond the realm of possibility, especially since he knew Sherlock placed so much stock in physical signs of attraction. He tried willing his heartbeat to slow, as silly as the effort was, and was inevitably unsuccessful.

"N-no. I'd rather focus on one or the other."

Fingertips, with the most delicate of pressure, skirted down his sides, blazing trails of sensation in their wake. They settled on the curve of his hips and took hold of his belt. Sherlock dragged him closer.

"You're certain?" he whispered, mouth moving against John's skin with the words. "Then clearly you cannot deny which option is superior." With a rallying breath, John grabbed Sherlock's hands where they were inching dangerously close to his groin, and pushed them away.

"You can't just seduce me into getting your way," he declared, crossing his arms and turning to face the detective. Sherlock, who was still very close, glared down at him with eyebrows pulled together.

"Why not?"

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. He really should have seen that coming.

"Because it's not fair. It makes us unequal."

"How?"

"Because I want to ask my questions and you want to fool around, and fooling around keeps me from having enough blood in my brain to ask my questions properly."

"Ah. I see."

"You…do?"

"You're looking for a form of reciprocity."

John watched Sherlock's eyes carefully, trying to find any indication of deceit.

"Yes."

"You want a give and take."

"Yes! Exactly." John smiled broadly.

"We'll play a game, then."

John groaned and slapped his palm against his forehead.

"This isn't a game, Sherlock. This is important."

"And…? We've had plenty of important conversations because of games."

Reluctant though he was, John had to concede the point. It seemed that, ever since the Last Drop, the set rules of a conversation game allowed them to talk in ways they never would have otherwise. The guise of competition acted as a kind of safety net for honesty. They weren't confessing feelings, they were just playing. While John realized how bizarre the whole arrangement was, he supposed it wouldn't serve to question it. If something worked on Sherlock he wasn't about to toss it away.

"What are the terms?" he sighed, pulling away to busy himself with bath amenities. Might as well commit to the whole bath farce if they were really doing this. Rolling up his coat sleeve, he swilled the water around, tested the temperature, and mixed in the salts. Unfortunately, the feel of hot water reinforced the reality of what they were about to do. With a hard swallow he clamped down on the nervousness that started to swell at the thought. Though they'd come by each other's hands twice now, everything still felt new and intimidating. It was no secret that Sherlock affected him rather…severely. It was hard to feel confident with such a lack of control, not to mention a debilitating lack of experience.

In his peripheral he watched Sherlock shrug out of his suit jacket and lean against the marble sink counter, familiar look of concentration sharpening his pale eyes. When he started to speak, John flicked the moisture from his hand and sat on the edge of the tub, facing him.

"Once we're in the bath, and naked-that is non-negotiable—you may ask a question. If I answer it, I'm allowed to perform one act of sexual contact with you, the intimacy of which to be determined by the intimacy of the question. If I choose _not_ to answer it, you may ask another question and I cannot touch you for a turn."

John cleared his throat and thought about his words carefully before speaking.

"Let me get this straight. You want to…be rewarded for answering my questions by touching me?"

"Yes. Problem?"

"Wouldn't you rather be rewarded by _being_ touched?"

"No."

John frowned, trying to work out the reasoning behind Sherlock's proposition. Did Sherlock not like it when John touched him? Was he bad at it? Come to think of it, Sherlock had only let John pleasure him once, using his own hand in the train while John was incapacitated post-orgasm. The colour drained from his face as embarrassment set in. _Oh God_, he thought. _I'm shit at hand-jobs_.

"As usual, you are jumping to conclusions without sufficient data," Sherlock scolded, drawing back John's focus. Sherlock stared at him as if he were the most endearingly transparent individual on the face of the earth. "While you are undoubtedly inexperienced, your natural proclivity for care-giving makes you a capable partner and a swift learner. Not to mention the fact that you derive more satisfaction from bestowing pleasure than receiving it, a rare and invaluable trait. No, the reasons I have for wanting to touch you rather than be touched are more strategic. You said yourself that your focus suffers from sexual contact. I would be foolish not to take advantage of that weakness."

"Does that mean you don't want me to touch you either because if I did, you would lose focus too?" John hazarded, looking up at Sherlock through his eyelashes.

"Of course not."

John's gaze narrowed. He cleared his throat.

"I thought you said I was good."

"You are. But no one is that good."

A flare of competitiveness surged through John instantly, his eyes lighting up at the challenge. Where just moments before was self-consciousness for his sexual deficiencies was now aggressive determination to prove himself.

"Fine, Sherlock, I accept the terms, but with one alteration."

That spark of interest that John so loved inducing in his best friend could not be more evident in Sherlock's expression.

"Yes?"

John turned off the bath faucet, the tub now almost full, stood, and began removing his coat. Steam slithered up from the surface of the bath water, rendering the room warm and windows foggy. It seemed oddly quiet without the white noise of rushing water, but John still managed to keep his resolve from faltering. He approached Sherlock where he leaned against the counter with slow steps, letting his coat fall to the floor tiles before working on the buttons of his cardigan. He kept his eyes locked with Sherlock's, unflinching, and did not speak until he stood between Sherlock's legs.

"If you refuse to answer, in addition to asking another question, I get to touch you. You still can't touch me though."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched in what could either be amusement or disapproval. John did not have to ability to tell. He took hold of John's hips again and drew him closer. With John gripped between the clench of Sherlock's thighs, clever fingers took over unbuttoning the cardigan.

"Your strategy is to arouse me into answering your more personal queries," Sherlock stated before pushing the cardigan from John's shoulders until it pooled at their feet. "Regrettably, it will not work. You of all people should know how difficult my focus is to break."

"On the contrary, I don't want to break your focus," John said, mustering every last drop of his confidence and leaning forward until his lips grazed the curve of Sherlock's ear, "I want to command it."

For the first time in any of their encounters, and without the influence of fever, Sherlock quivered. John grinned triumphantly against pale skin, taking hold of Sherlock's tight, expensive shirt and freeing it from his trousers.

"Cold?" he asked snidely, finding the bare skin of Sherlock's lower back and caressing. It was warm, impossibly smooth.

"It was just a twitch," Sherlock snapped, though the breathy quality of his voice betrayed him, or at least John liked to think so. "I thought you didn't want to mix sex with your interrogation. 'One or the other,' you said."

"As long as I get the information I want, I'm fine with negotiating."

"You—" but Sherlock was interrupted by a loud knock on the main door to their suite. They both froze instantly.

"Must be our bags," John sighed, the mood stomped down in an instant. And he was on such a roll, too. "I'll get it since I look less debauched."

Sherlock bristled, flinching away and crossing his arms.

"Your delusional lack of self-awareness staggers me. I've never been 'debauched' in my life. You, on the other hand, look—"

"Yes, yes, fine, fine. Then I'll get the door because I'm less likely to torture the bellboy. Why don't you just…uh…continue what we started…or something."

John fled before his blush became too evident, striding across the suite. He wrenched open the main door, hardly bothering to conceal his irritation at being interrupted.

"Yes?"

"Your luggage, sir," offered the bellboy cheerfully. He was young, gangly, speckled with acne, and far too happy for his own good. With a smile, he wheeled in a gold and red luggage cart. "Are you pleased with your room?"

"Sure," John replied dismissively, scrambling to grab their duffles as quickly as possible.

"Let me get those for you."

"No, it's fine," John sneered. His wallet was in his coat pocket in the bathroom, so the kid had no hope of scoring a tip. No point wasting his energy.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to—"

"Really, it's fine! I'm just…busy with—"

"John!" a deep, disembodied voice called form the bathroom. "I'm naked and wet! Don't you dare let me get bored or the no-murder deal is off!"

The bellboy's eyes bulged so wide John wondered if the kid's pimples might pop from shock. John pinched the bridge of his nose and released a long-suffering sigh.

"…that," he finished.

With a few incoherent stutters the bellboy stumbled as fast as he could from their room, door shutting with a resounding click behind him.

"Damnit, Sherlock!" John shouted, stomping back to the bathroom with his fists clenched. He kicked open the door, savouring the thud it made against the wall, before striding to the tub. "You did that on purpose!"

Unfortunately, the fight drained from immediately when he laid eyes on his flatmate. Sherlock was, as he'd affirmed a few moments before, very naked and very wet. He lounged against one side of the tub, which had the contours of a seat, with his arms resting back against the bath's edge. John could see all of him through the clear lens of the water, with this slim hips and white skin and tuft of faint hair at his groin. His cheeks were flushed from the heat, his hair moist at the nape. John gulped, the sound loud in the echoing bathroom, and tried to find his traitorous composure.

"You've seen me bare before," Sherlock said quietly, thoughtfully. "And you've never looked like that." His eyes were soft, almost mesmerized, as they scanned over John's face.

"It's different now," John heard his voice crack without his permission.

"How?"

"I-I don't know. It feels…the more I touch you…I don't know. But there was always something."

Despite John's indecipherable ramblings, Sherlock didn't mock him as he would have expected. Rather, he looked unsure, even a bit stumped. He shook away the expression quickly though, replacing it with his usual dismissive facade.

"Are you coming in or not?" he drawled, grimacing at John's remaining clothing as though it had personally affronted him.

"Right. Yeah." John pulled his red shirt from his trousers and began twiddling with the buttons, his fingers not nearly as confident as they had been before the bellboy intrusion. "How's the water?" he asked awkwardly, trying to divert the attention away from his pathetic undressing.

"Satisfactory."

"And, uh, where should I sit?"

"Opposite of me for now, though I would recommend removing the rest of your clothing first."

"Yes, thank you, genius, I know. And what do you mean 'for now'?" John dropped his shirt to the floor, reaching for the fastenings of his trousers. When the expected snarky quip did not come, John's hands froze and he glanced at his friend.

Sherlock's piercing gaze was locked on his shoulder, at the gnarled flesh of his scar, with a kind of intensity John had only seen directed at a particularly perplexing corpse. John's whole body tensed instantly and he fought with every ounce of bravery he had not to turn away and pull his shirt back on. He'd been dreading this moment for a while, fearing when Sherlock got his first full look at John's scar and began analyzing. He didn't want Sherlock seeing how he'd been hit from behind, how the bullet had burst into a dozen shards before it exited his body. How the surgery had been rushed and slapdash and dirty. How infection nearly killed him. Vulnerability like he hadn't known in a long time washed over him.

"I was surprised when you didn't say anything in the train," he mumbled, eyes focusing on a floor tile. There would be no point in trying to hide now, he supposed.

"I've seen it before. We live together."

Sherlock's tone caught John off-guard. It was calm, unconcerned to the point of being soothing.

"You looked…fascinated, though. Like I was some corpse."

"It is fascinating."

John closed his eyes. He knew it. He knew Sherlock would see the scar like some kind of case, objectifying him.

"You are fascinating."

John startled, meeting Sherlock's gaze with incredulous eyes.

"Really?"

"Yes. Now take off your trousers and get in here before the water cools. Unless you're avoiding the game because you know you'll lose…"

A smile tugged at the corner of John's lips, all vulnerability and fear plucked from him in an instant. _You are fascinating_. The words darted through his mind, bringing him back to himself. It might have been the best compliment he'd ever received.

"How does one win this game, exactly?" he asked playfully, dropping his trousers to the floor and stepping out of them.

"By not achieving orgasm first, obviously."

John paused, thumbs hooked under the band of his pants.

"You're kidding."

"John, honestly, we'll discuss this once you get in. I'm getting impatient."

"You're always impatient."

"John!"

"Fine, fine." John took a deep breath, pushed his pants off, and hopped in the tub in one swift motion, settling across from Sherlock before he could lose his nerve. The water was perfect. Hot, but not enough to scald, and emitting a lovely sent of lavender and sandalwood from the salts. The side of his right leg was flush with Sherlock's beneath the water, feet folded over each other against Sherlock's hip. The curved side of the tub supported his back wonderfully, and he found himself instantly comfortable, relaxed. He turned his head to look out the steam-flushed windows beside them, just making out the staggering view of the sea. He could get used to this.

"A bath was a good idea," John hummed, resting his hand on Sherlock's calf and holding.

"One of your few."

"Oi!"

"Now, I'll ask you not to touch me until we begin." Sherlock twitched his leg, indicating John's hold there. John reluctantly pulled his hand away. For a moment he'd almost forgotten that Sherlock had some explaining to do, and that they were going to play some ridiculous game to it out of him.

"But that touch wasn't sexual…"

"Any part of the body can become an erogenous zone if given _proper_ stimulation," Sherlock explained smugly, as though John was some kind of coy maiden who'd never given an orgasm in his life while Sherlock was a bona fide sex god. John's hackles rose instantly.

"Have you ever even touched someone affectionately without sex involved?" John snapped, the words coming out so biting and suggestive that he couldn't believe they'd come from his own mouth. Sherlock's eyes widened, his body going slightly rigid beside him. The look of surprise was reigned in quickly though, his gaze narrowing and growing sharp, predatory.

"Is that your first question?" Sherlock asked, voice low, almost a growl.

While John felt a bit guilty for the way the subject came about, it was something he'd been pondering for a while. He'd never been with someone who approached sex the way Sherlock did, like it was a means to an end (and that end was not necessarily orgasm). In fact, hadn't every time they'd fooled around been for the purpose of Sherlock proving to John that integrating sex into their friendship was a preferable idea? He really didn't get the sense they'd done it for pure desire yet, or to simply be closer. Sherlock himself had said sex was merely something he'd practiced to gather data for the work.

_I have never been with someone who could be identified as more than an acquaintance._

Those words from Sherlock's notepad, which John had read so many times in the secret dark of his room, flashed in his mind. What did that mean for their relationship? How could Sherlock understand what John wanted from sex, which he saw as more than just a tool, with such a complete lack of relationship experience? And how did Victor fit into this? He'd said, under oath, that he'd never had a friend before John, yet here was this extremely familiar (infuriatingly handsome) man calling Sherlock 'old friend' and looking at him like he'd seen every part of him before.

No, guilt or not, this was the only way he was going to get the explanations he needed and bloody well deserved.

"Yes. It is. Now, answer, or let me touch you."

**Author's Note: woohooo first real cliff-hanger of The First Trip! You didn't think I'd stop doing those, did you? You know how much I love to torture you. It's an affectionate kind of a torture. A "I've strapped the love of your life to a bomb because I adore you" kind of torture. **

**Next chapter we get into the first conversation game of the first trip and the last of the first and last trilogy. Phew. Say that ten times fast. Ima need a few "red leather, yellow leather"s before I try it myself...  
**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: "PHEW!" I say as I recline back with a cocktail and a (metaphorical) cigarette. "This one was a doozy." Yes, Phyona, it was, wasn't it? "Oh yes, Phyona, quite, quite." Why am I talking to myself? WHY, do you ask? Because this chapter has drained the last of my limited sanity. It took a lot. It did. "You're just saying that so they won't hate you for having such a ridiculous WIP." Oh, do shut up, Phyona, no one cares what you have to say. They just want to read the damn thing. "...tramp." I heard that.**

Sherlock, eerily expressionless, stared for so long John was starting to wonder if the man had fallen asleep with his eyes open.

"Uh…are you going to decide before the water goes cold or…," John ventured, adjusting against the porcelain. The friction of skin-on-tub made an odd, admittedly embarrassing, sound. John winced and sputtered, "I swear that was the tub," but was ignored, the noise seeming to have snapped Sherlock out of his stasis.

"The question is ill-formed, vague, and poorly conceived and therefore I cannot possibly answer it honestly," Sherlock stated.

"What do you mean?"

"I have touched many people affectionately, yourself included, to achieve an end that was not sexual, at least on my side. However, since most of those examples were undergone because of a case, I don't believe they fit with your specific intentions behind the question, as I felt no genuine affection for the subject. I could give you an answer that would be true but not necessarily pertinent, especially if you don't include yourself or, let's say Mrs. Hudson, as a relevant example. You're attempting to gather information about my enigmatic sexual past, not rehash facts you're already privy to. Therefore, in an act of fairness, I decline to answer. You may touch me now."

John took a moment to let his brain catch up with Sherlock's rant, which sounded an awful lot like a long-winded deflection. As usual though, he got snagged on one particular point.

"You've touched me affectionately without any kind of sex involved?" John asked skeptically, pulling his brow together.

"Yes. Of course."

"Give me one example." John crossed his arms over his chest, sloshing the water a bit.

"Your bed. After the 'Apocolyptic Hangover Day' as you've liked to deem it. I brought you dinner. You forced me to sleep in your bed with you. There was intimate touching involved that was not sexual."

"Hang on, _forced_ you?"

Sherlock nodded.

John wasn't sure whether to be affronted or ashamed. He settled for a mix of the two.

"I would never, and _could_ never, force you to do something like that. You…you really didn't want to? I didn't know. I—"

"Of course I wanted to, don't be a moron. I just wouldn't have if you hadn't been so…_assertive_."

"Why not? Why wouldn't you?"

"No more questions until you touch me. You're ruining the game."

"Fine!" John snapped, before taking a deep, humid breath through his nose and calming himself. Yet, just as he was about to contemplate his touch choice, a thought occurred to him. "Should…should we have, like, a safeword or something before I do this?"

"A safeword."

"Yeah, you know. Just in case one of us wants to stop and the word 'no' could be misinterpreted. Isn't that…isn't that what we're supposed to do?"

Sherlock seemed to consider this very intensely for a moment before apparently deciding John had a point.

"What word did you have in mind?"

"I dunno, anything, as long as it's a word that isn't likely to come up during sex. Like…'trumpet' or 'otter' or 'cinnamon' or something."

"How about 'Moriarty'?"

"WHAT? For God's sake, no! You know what, forget it, just forget I said anything."

"I usually do."

For the sake of completely ignoring Sherlock's comment, John decided to focus back on where he'd select to touch Sherlock for the turn. He knew it couldn't be just anywhere. The location had to be equally intimate to the question. As far as he was concerned the question itself hadn't been especially personal, and the game was only just beginning, so he opted for a relatively erroneous zone: Sherlock's calf. If part of him reveled in the opportunity to undermine Sherlock's request that he remove his hand from that exact spot only moments before, he didn't let it show. Mostly.

"That's it?" Sherlock drawled, looking distinctly unimpressed.

In response, John gently swirled his fingertips on Sherlock's skin, finding the hair there unusually fine. He watched his hand move beneath the water, his gaze flickering up to Sherlock's face in increments. While his expression had been bored at best seconds before, it was slowly morphing into something different and decidedly more difficult to read. He seemed to be frowning, but there was a hint of confusion in his eyes, a rare and unnerving sight.

John decided that was sufficient confirmation that no one had touched Sherlock in such a way before. The idea made him want to caress the man everywhere with light, sweet contact, to map out Sherlock's entire body until it was tattooed in his memory. Yet, John held back. He sensed that it was best not to push too quickly to avoid jarring Sherlock out of his comfort zone, making him shut down. John forced his fingers to go still, simply holding onto Sherlock's shin with a sturdy, though not trapping, pressure.

"Next question?" he asked, when Sherlock didn't seem inclined to break out of his hazy focus. Sherlock blinked and shook his head slightly, as though trying to dissipate fog from his head.

"Get on with it," he said, dismissive air set back in place. John found it impossibly more irritating than usual.

"Why did Victor call you 'old friend' if you've never had a friend before me?" The question, blistering with accusation, snapped from his mouth before he could contain it. _Bollocks_, he thought. He'd been planning on continuing the 'forced-me-to-spoon-you' discussion, keeping the Victor card up his sleeve until the right moment. Unfortunately, the strategic benefits of a gradual progression of intimacy didn't hold much clout in the face of his jealousy. Stupid tall, green-eyed wankers with a talent for flustering his flatmate/best friend/pseudo-boyfriend ruining his game plan. John had always had a bit of a possessive streak, at least when it came to Sherlock.

"I'm hardly responsible for the things other people say."

"You're evading the question."

"No, I'm simply giving you an unsatisfying answer."

"Yeah, because it's not an answer at all. Whatever happened to being fair?"

"Depends on your definition of 'fair.'"

"Oh, well mine is 'just and honest.' What's yours?"

"Beautiful and susceptible to sunburn."

"Sherlock," John snapped, the word a warning on his lips.

Sherlock let his head fall back against the tub rim and exhaled loudly, exposing the sinewy column of his throat. John tried not to get distracted, but he'd always been a 'neck-man' and no one, absolutely no one, had a neck like Sherlock's. Pale, currently moist, skin, punctuated by an occasional beauty mark, along with the perfectly muscled lines of his throat, made it a sight to behold. Christ, was it appetizing. If it weren't for that blue scarf typically keeping it concealed he'd never get anything done. In its absence he'd have to rely on his own (useless) resolve to keep from salivating like a starved, stray dog. The game was looking grim.

"I suppose it's possible that from a certain perspective our prior relationship could be described as a 'friendship,'" Sherlock said to the ceiling. John frowned.

"So, you lied to me that night, then," he accused, tone flat. Sherlock snapped his head down, finding John's glare and matching it.

"I did no such thing. When I take a vow of honesty I take it very seriously. Victor…," Sherlock began, pausing to adjust a little, twitching irritably, before continuing. "Victor always thought more of our…_arrangement_, than I."

The word 'arrangement' seemed to stick in John's thoughts like mud, bogging them down and making him freeze. "What _arrangement_? What does that mean? Because you know what that sounds like, right? Are you implying that-"

"For God's sake, stop asking questions, your turn is over! Are you completely incapable of following the simplest of rules?" Sherlock spat. He was flushed, eyes bright and fists curled, looking like the biggest brat John had ever seen.

"Alright fine, princess, go ahead and touch me. Sorry I'm ruining your tea party." Flattening a hand on his chest, John inflected a faux-sweetness into the words and pouted mockingly.

Sherlock looked murderous, which wasn't a very comforting expression to see on the man you've just given a free-range pass to touch you anywhere his borderline sociopathic heart desired. John really needed to start rethinking his methods.

"Tell me, John," Sherlock cooed, deceptively soft, as he slowly leaned forward, his hand spread and skimming towards John across the surface of the water, "what level of intimacy do you think your question merits? Perhaps a thigh? A hip? Or a collar bone? Maybe even a pulse point." The hand passed over each listed body part as it moved, finally stopping when it encountered John's throat. From the faint sting at the contact, John realized Sherlock was targeting the bite mark he'd made the night before. John had almost forgotten it was there.

The tip of Sherlock's finger circled the site of the burst capillaries and faded teeth marks, eliciting a hum of pain that shot right down John's spine, morphing into pleasure by the time it reached his abdomen.

"I meant to ask," John began, voice suddenly hoarse and breathy, "why did you bite me? I-is that a thing of yours? Like marking, or—"

"Is that the question you really want to ask? This is the last time I remind you that we're playing, John." Sherlock's eyes were cold when they locked with his, now much closer than before. John swallowed, finding the air unpleasantly thick.

"No, it's not. I'm sure I'll find out the answer to that soon enough anyways." Sherlock's expression betrayed no reaction, though his fingertip did not stop its careful ministrations against John's pulse point. The sting was closer to an ache now, sweet and tingling.

"Then what is it?"

John's hand twitched where it still rested on Sherlock's calf. His eyes flickered over the face of his rosy-cheeked flatmate.

"How did you meet him?"

Sherlock blew out a slow breath from his nose, his finger finally stilling.

"I was bitten."

"_What?_" John chirped, flinching and tensing as a very uncomfortable, _very_ unwanted explanation of Sherlock's bite fetish flashed in his brain. His hand flew up to cover the mark on his neck, splashing Sherlock right in the face in the process.

Sherlock pulled his hand out from beneath John's and used it to wipe the moisture from his face. John was instantly reminded of a grumpy, wet cat.

"By his _dog_, I was going to finish, before you decided to drown me." Sherlock lounged back against the tub's edge, his brow puckered and eyes glinting dangerously. "Your delicate sensibilities are safe from whatever sexual deviances you're thinking I attempted to pull on you."

"Hold on a minute," John said, gathering himself and taking his hand off his neck to hold up a solitary, scolding finger. "Now who's the one jumping to conclusions without _sufficient data_? I was upset by what I thought was the cause of the fetish, not the fetish itself."

"_Fetish?_" Sherlock spat, eyes bugging with disgust. "A _fetish?_"

"Well what else would you call it?"

Sherlock looked horrified.

"It's not even like it's that kinky," John continued, wondering when exactly he'd given his mouth permission to keep speaking, "I've done far worse shit than that. One time at uni I—"

"If I wanted a detailed account of your insipid sexual history I'd ask for it," Sherlock cut him off. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, his whole person radiating agitation. "Or just deduce it myself. It's hardly a complex mystery, 'Three-Continents Watson.'"

"I told you not to call me that! And, for the record, my sex life has been anything but 'insipid'-"

"Did I not just say I don't want to hear about it? Or was that too much for you to—"

"What's the matter? Is all this sex talk alarming you?" John knew it was a low blow, but it was like Sherlock's voice was hardwired to his on/off switch, frying it and making it impossible to use properly. He could almost hear Sherlock gritting his teeth together.

"As I've told you multiple times, sex doesn't alarm me. I've certainly provided you with concrete physical evidence to support that assertion. Let me remind you that I am the not one getting flustered like a teenager and nearly fainting every time we touch each other. Nor am I the one begging for attention at every opportunity."

While John was already flushed pink from the heat and the adrenaline coursing through his veins, he turned a whole new shade of red at Sherlock's words. His mouth went dry.

A list of potential counters to Sherlock's defensive, and frankly mortifying, words immediately formed in his head. Unfortunately, because his life was just that unfair, his mouth didn't seem to get the 'logical response' memo.

Sherlock was already reaching forward to touch him, clearly taking John's 'alarmed by sex' question as his turn. Just as his fingertips made contact with John's inner thigh, he was interrupted.

"Have you had sex with Victor?" someone who sounded remarkably like John Watson asked. _Shit._

At least he had the benefit of shocking Sherlock out of whatever cruel mood he'd wound himself into. Grey eyes blinked and plump lips opened and closed again a few times before Sherlock found his voice. Slowly, the fingers on his leg receded.

"And yes, that is the question I want answered," John added, because hey, why not? _In for a penny…_, he thought.

"Why do you want to know?" Sherlock asked back, which was in no way the answer John was looking for.

"If you wanted to be able to ask me questions you should have put it in the rules."

"Fine, then I'm instituting an amendment: I can now ask you questions as well."

"No."

"You let me change the rules before."

"That was different."

"Why?"

"Because I didn't want to murder you at the time."

Sherlock apparently didn't have a reply to that, so he and John set about having a scintillating glaring match across the tub. John wasn't sure how long it went on, since he had a tendency to get a bit lost in Sherlock's ridiculously deep eyes, but by the time Sherlock spoke the water was still comfortably warm, so it couldn't have been more than a few minutes.

"Yes."

John blinked.

"Yes?"

"Yes, I had sex with him."

"Ah. Right."

It wasn't that he'd been expecting a different answer. In truth, he hadn't prepared for a reply in either direction. Yet, he couldn't help deflating a little at the words, sagging against the hard tub and letting some of his adrenaline seep from him. Of course they'd slept together. It was obvious. In fact, there had to be some kind of natural law that required such high-cheekboned, pretty-eyed creatures to mate on sight. John's arms wrapped around his middle, and he suddenly didn't feel like the few favours criminal-catching and fever had done for his physique were so generous anymore.

"That was a rather intimate question," Sherlock said after a moment.

"Was it?" John kept his eyes cast to the side, sounding distant.

"Merits something more personal than an extremity, certainly."

"I suppose."

John felt rather than saw Sherlock lean forward again, the water shifting around him. When Sherlock's fingertips grazed his forearm, he braved a look back at him. Sherlock simply nodded towards his arms where they were still crossed over his stomach, and John obeyed the silent request, sliding them aside. With a firm but delicate pressure, Sherlock splayed his palm flat over the pouch of John's belly, covering his trail of hair.

John sucked in a short breath, conflicted between feeling self-conscious or soothed at the contact, so warm and soft and right where he was trying to hide.

"Interesting that you make no effort to conceal your extensive sexual experience to others, even boasting about your hard-earned army moniker in certain company, I'm sure, yet bar me from using the nickname. And then, the first time you're confronted with a relic from my own sexual past, you disengage from me completely. Tell me, John, what am I to deduce from that?"

John pressed his lips into a line, narrowing his eyes on his flatmate.

"How about that I'm the one who's supposed to be asking the questions?"

Sherlock huffed and slid his hand to John's hip, gripping and pulling him forward. John made a rather incriminating "eep!" sound as he was dragged halfway across the tub, until his knees were bent and his hip was pressed against Sherlock's upper thigh.

"Sherlock, what the—"

"I am bored with the pace of this game. Ask your questions faster or I'll decide the intimacy level myself." To support his point, Sherlock's thumb inched slightly lower where it was pressed into the crease of his hip.

"Fine! Next question: if Victor was, let's say, for the sake of the game, a friend of yours, and you had sex with him, does that mean you lied to me when you said you'd never had sex with anyone who was more than an acquaintance?"

"I refuse to answer."

"What? Why?"

"The question is based on a hypothetical scenario, i.e.: if I considered Victor and I friends, and therefore impossible to answer accurately."

"If you insist." John immediately drove his hand right between Sherlock's thighs, gripping him high on the inside of his leg, his knuckles just centimeters from Sherlock's _most_ intimate body part. A small, almost unperceivable gasp escaped Sherlock's lips, and John could swear the flush on his cheeks deepened. Good. He'd just about had it with Sherlock's infuriating deflections.

"Considering your extensive knowledge of me and my perceptions, let me then ask you this, then: if I had all the information there is on you and Victor's relationship, do you believe that I, personally, would have considered you more than just acquaintances when you had sex with him?"

Sherlock's eyes widened, giving John the extremely rare privilege of seeing Sherlock caught completely off-guard. It was an igniting sight.

"Well, I…"

"Yes?" John pushed, his fingers twitching slightly higher between Sherlock's legs.

"Alright, fine, yes. Yes, you would have thought we were more than that. And you would have been wrong."

The hand on his hip traveled lower and in one quick, blood-searing motion took John's dick firmly in hand. It was only then that John realized he was already half-hard, though for the life of him couldn't explain why. It wasn't as though discussing Sherlock's past lover was turning him on, that was for damn sure. Perhaps it was the excitement of the game itself, charged with manipulation and the thrill of the gamble. He had Sherlock's undivided attention, just as he'd wanted. It made him swell with pride (apparently in more ways than one). And he wasn't the only one, he was pleased to discover, when he chanced a glance between his flatmate's legs.

When John managed to draw his focus back to Sherlock's face, he gritted out his next question.

"Why would I have thought that?"

"Because you're sentimental and delusional."

Sherlock's hand squeezed tighter, working up and down his shaft. John did not have the ability to be offended.

"And?" John managed to croak, rubbing his own fingers against the crease of Sherlock's thigh, and fighting the urge to break the rules by taking Sherlock in his own hand.

"Because you're jealous."

Sherlock worked him harder, faster. John bit back a moan. The water moved around them.

"And?"

Without hesitation, Sherlock responded.

"Because he took my virginity." And at the last word his hand released its grip, inducing a whimper from John, and crept, gradually, torturously, lower. It skidded along John's most sensitive skin, deep between his legs, until his breath was coming out in harsh gasps, and Sherlock was touching him where no partner ever had before.

John's head fell down and to the side, pressing into the crook of Sherlock's neck as he swallowed desperately, trying to calm himself. The touch, confident and utterly foreign, had hit him like a static charge, frying out his nervous system.

It wasn't the first time he'd felt like a virgin in the face of Sherlock's advances. In fact, if he was being honest, he always did, and not just because Sherlock was the first man he'd ever been with. Everything Sherlock did was unique. He was brilliant, fierce, and penetrating as a sword, and John felt it like a shock every time they touched.

"John?" Sherlock said after a moment, the word seeming to rumble directly from Sherlock's chest into John's head.

"Yes, I know. Just…I just have one more question."

"Yes?" The fingers on him began to move, delicate and circling.

With great effort, John pealed his face from Sherlock's shoulder, leaning back to meet his eyes and jostling the fingers in a way that almost derailed his thought process entirely. He swallowed.

"What makes me different?"

Sherlock's dilated pupils contracted as his gaze flickered back and forth between John's eyes. He opened his mouth, but closed it again, and shook his head.

_No. _

Somehow, even in his touch-addled mind, John had known Sherlock would decline to answer. It was the most intimate question, forbidden, and yet the only one he really wanted the answer to. When it came down to it, he didn't care about Victor. After all, he was the one in the tub, damnit, not some posh businessman with a shark's smile. But it was the riddle Victor raised that confounded John, made him crave an explanation. For if Sherlock didn't want Victor, who was beautiful and smart and made him flustered, why on earth would he want John?

So John touched him in the most intimate way he could fathom, the one way he knew no one, not even Victor, had before him.

He closed the space between them and kissed Sherlock like they loved each other.

**Author's Note: Anyone catch the itty bitty 'Teen Wolf' reference? I don't know how that finagled it's way in there. These things happen. Oh, and also the 'A Cure for Boredom' reference. Apparently I'm in a referencing mood. **

**Also, if any of you left a review and didn't receive a reply I am desperately sorry. I have been a real Anderson about that of late, but trust me, your comment was no less cherished and adored. I swear on my pantaloons (or I would if I had any).  
**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: Ooohhhhkay well...so...this chapter's pretty friggin explicit. Whoooopsie. My b. And to think, 'The Last Drop' and 'The Temper Between' were, for the most part, so slow and vanilla. Well, those were the good old days...the days of innocence...the days of UST and spooning and hand holding. Now, welcome to the Age of Dicks. The Cock Dynasty. The Penis Renaissance. The Shlong Era. The Wang Empire. The...you know what I'm just gonna stop now before I hurt myself.**

Time contorted, seeming to both tick by in precise detail and muddle into indiscernible stretches.

The kiss was slow, gentle. It claimed all of his focus, narrowing his world down to the small space where their mouths connected. John felt each touch of warm, wet tongue, each graze of teeth on lips with a vivid clarity that branded in his brain. He poured his frustration and adoration and passion for Sherlock into every movement, hoping that lips could convey what words could not. John had kissed many people in his life, people he loved and people he wanted. He'd never kissed anyone like this.

His awareness beyond their mouths, however, was cloudy and distant. It took a few long moments before John regained comprehension of where their hands had traveled: Sherlock's fingers were splayed on his back, having abandoned their ministrations between his legs for the sake of holding John as close as their positions would allow, while one of John's hands was pressed flat against the plane of Sherlock's chest, the other cupping Sherlock's cheek softly.

A faint whimpering sound passed between their mouths, and it took John a few more kisses before he realized it had come from Sherlock and not himself. Surprised as he was that, for the first time, Sherlock was the one making needy, desperate noises, John fed on it, let it drive his confidence. He pushed further, careful to keep any strictly sexual touching out of their embrace, and hooked his fingers around Sherlock's nape. Coercing Sherlock into canting his head and letting him in further, John made the push of his tongue as meaningful and intention-filled as he could. Another small moan broke from Sherlock's throat, rewarding him. The sound was helpless and vulnerable, filling John with warmth that pooled behind his eyes like honey.

Since most of their previous contact had been driven by Sherlock, who seemed to possess infinite confidence and sexual prowess while John spent most of his energy trying not to get too overwhelmed, being on the other side was…vindicating.

When he finally pulled away, pressing one last kiss to the faded scar at the corner of Sherlock's mouth, Sherlock tried to follow him, eyes shut and lips parted. John held him back with the hand on his chest, and felt his heart beat out a frantic rhythm beneath his palm. With a careful touch, John ran the fingers of his other hand through Sherlock's curls in an attempt to soothe.

Sherlock's eyes slowly opened, and John found them dazed and sweeter than he'd ever seen them. He let the sight wash over him, filling him with pride. Unfortunately, John's expression must have given his thoughts away, for Sherlock immediately pulled back, sharpening himself up. His eyes regained their acute focus and his spine straightened, as though asserting his height over John would regain him the advantage.

"You okay?" John asked tentatively, brushing his thumb across Sherlock's cheekbone, catching a stray drop of water.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock snapped, though the effect was dulled by the unsteady quality of his voice. In fact, as John took a moment to look the man over, he found that he was shaking, and not just with a fleeting quiver but a whole body tremor that pulsed through the water around them.

"You're shaking."

"Well, of course I am, the water's gone cold. I can hardly control my body's involuntary functions."

"No, I don't suppose you can," John murmured through a smirk. While the water had, indeed, chilled, it was still comfortably warm. Hardly enough to cause shivering. Sherlock wasn't usually so blatant in his evasion tactics, but John decided to be merciful and let it go unaddressed. Despite Sherlock's best efforts to slide his impassive mask back in place, he hadn't managed to dispel the flush from his neck or hide the dilation of his pupils. To throw his own word back at him, Sherlock was being 'obvious.' "Ready to get out?"

"No, I'd rather sit here and catch hypothermia," Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest petulantly.

"Then by all means, stay here for the rest of the holiday if you'd like," John responded mildly, before levering himself to a standing position and snatching a towel from the rack beside the tub. "I'm getting out."

"What? But you can't! The game isn't over yet."

"Yes, it is," John said, stepping onto the floor mat and drying himself off.

"But neither of us achieved orgasm."

"Didn't need to. I've gotten all the answers I required. Not much point in playing anymore. Besides, I thought you said you were cold."

"But—I—"

John glanced at the detective as he ruffled the blond hair at the back of his neck with the towel. The flush was rising higher in Sherlock's cheeks, his lips down-turned in a pout that John had only seen previously achieved when cigarettes were being held captive.

"Of course, if you still wanted to come I'd be happy to assist you in the bedroom. But since you're so set on catching hypothermia—"

Sherlock launched to his feet, splashing water over the edge of the tub and nearly falling over. John had never seen him look so tousled.

"You're trying to manipulate me!" Sherlock accused through his teeth, pointing a boney finger at John's chest.

"Said the pot to the kettle."

"_What?_"

"Nevermind. Here," John sighed as he picked up another towel and tossed it at Sherlock. It hit him square in the face and stuck there. John bit back a giggle.

After a moment of standing stock still, Sherlock slowly pulled the towel from his head and began drying off, a scowl set in his brow. John secured his own towel around his waist, unplugged the tub drain, and waited. He watched, transfixed, as Sherlock dragged the towel across his chest, beneath his arms, across his hips, allowing himself to appreciate creamy skin and subtle contours. Sherlock didn't seem to notice him, as there was no way he wouldn't comment on John's blatant arousal at such plain movements.

"You ruined the game," Sherlock grumbled as he stepped out of the tub and onto the mat. John's hands immediately found his bare hips and pulled him close. Looking down his nose at him, Sherlock held his towel tight across his shoulders and chest.

"My sincerest apologies."

"That didn't sound sincere in the slightest."

"Then I suppose I'm being manipulative."

"You're never usually manipulative, at least not with me. It's…surprising."

"Perhaps I'm spending too much time with you."

"Not possible," Sherlock stated, allowing John to pull him so close their abdomens connected.

"Oh? Why is that?" John whispered, pressing his lips to the bit of collar bone the towel did not cover. He felt Sherlock shudder between his hands.

"Deduce it yourself."

"Hm, maybe later. I'd like to deduce something else at the moment, if you don't mind." John couldn't see Sherlock's face from his position against his collar bone, but he did catch how Sherlock's Adam's apple bobbed in his throat.

"Which is?"

John breathed hot against Sherlock's ear, watched the skin flush in response.

"That you'd like me to take you to bed but you're far too stubborn to say so."

Sherlock sighed.

"That's hardly a deduction. It's a conjecture at best, wishful coercion at worst. You'd think after all this time you'd know the definition of-"

"Oh, but I have evidence."

John pulled back enough to see Sherlock's face. He found pale, almost green, eyes watching him, and an eyebrow arched. Slowly, while maintaining a tight hold on Sherlock's hips, John guided him backwards towards the door.

"Pupils dilated," he said, voice barely above a whisper, as they walked, "face and neck flushed." They made it through the doorway, John congratulating himself for managing to keep them from tripping, though their success was probably due to Sherlock's prowess at walking backwards rather than John's maneuvering abilities. "Pulse elevated," he added, pressing a kiss beneath Sherlock's ear where the blood pounded against the skin, keeping his eyes focused on the bed over Sherlock's shoulder. "Not to mention the highly suggestive fact that—"

And John slid his hand to cup the hardness between Sherlock's legs just as the backs of the man's thighs hit the edge of the bed. A small gasp broke from Sherlock's throat, and John swallowed it, crashing their lips together and pushing forward until they fell, bouncing and clumsy, onto the mattress. Wrapping his arm around Sherlock's waist, he dragged Sherlock up the bed until his head was resting on a pillow and their feet were no longer hanging over the edge. The effort made his shoulder twinge, but the pain had never been easier to ignore.

"I must admit, your logic is sound," Sherlock remarked as John moved to lick and kiss at the side of his neck. He'd been staring at that obnoxiously appetizing neck for far too long without getting his mouth on it.

"That's because I'm a genius," John mumbled against Sherlock's skin, fitting his thigh between Sherlock's legs and grinding down. Only then did he realize that his towel had, in fact, abandoned him somewhere along the way, and that they were both unavoidably, entirely naked. And not just naked, but touching from head to toe while being naked. _Well, then_, John's unhelpful brain offered.

He waited for the surge of nerves to hit and stomp out his confidence, but it never came. It seemed like the new wave of assurance their kiss had given him tampered down his nervousness, allowing him to savour the sensations rather than fear them.

He grazed his hand down Sherlock's side, feeling the bumps of his ribs and an occasional mole, sucking at Sherlock's earlobe in praise when the man shuddered at his touch.

"I wouldn't go that far," Sherlock countered, and John felt the rumble of his deep voice bleed into his own chest where they were pressed together.

"Of course you wouldn't." He nipped at the curve of Sherlock's shoulder.

"You're more confident than before. Why is that?" A long index finger hooked below John's chin and drew him up so that they faced each other. Sherlock's eyes were scrutinizing, sharp and cold as they only were when the detective found a puzzle worth cracking.

"I don't know what you're talking about," John replied casually, trying to return to his work on Sherlock's neck, but finding himself held firmly in place.

"By your own admission you've felt like a 'virgin' during all our previous sexual encounters. You've been both physically and emotionally overwhelmed every time I touch you. Tell me, what variable has caused you to revert to the experienced army man who could not so much as look at a vaguely attractive woman without throwing himself at her?"

John opened his mouth then shut it again, pursing his lips.

"_Throwing_ myself?"

"Oh, you know what I meant," Sherlock said, flicking his hand dismissively before resting it on John's back.

"Yes, I do, and I think you meant exactly what you said."

Sherlock looked to the side, contemplating.

"Mm…yes, actually. Well-spotted. Now, tell me," he held John's chin tighter, gaze returning to John's eyes and burrowing deep, "what is the variable?"

"Why can't you just assume I'm more confident because I'm more..._used_ to this, and leave it at that?"

"No…that's not the only reason."

John huffed and rolled his eyes. Apparently not even their first time being completely naked and touching _everywhere_ could keep Sherlock from peeling apart a mystery if he found one. John pressed his elbow to the mattress beside Sherlock's head and leaned his cheek against his palm. He looked down at the detective expectantly.

"Get on with it then. I know you want to," he surrendered. Sherlock removed his fingers from John's chin once he realized he had his undivided attention, and rested his hand on John's bicep. He took a deep, gathering breath.

"Prior to our bath you were beginning to exhibit some hints of former confidence, as when you pressed me against the sink and promised to, what was it? 'Command my focus'? But it was fleeting. For example, once in the bath, you saw fit to cover the bit of excess fat in your stomach when you felt vulnerable, as though I'd critically compare our physiques, and really, John, what a ridiculous notion." He paused in his deductions to shoot John a withering glare. "Still, your fluctuation in self-assurance had been exceedingly transparent, that is, until we left the bath. Now, what changed in that short expanse of time? What was the catalyst? The only occurrence that could possibly fit…is our kiss."

John swallowed, wincing a little when it sounded like a dramatically loud gulp.

"Well…it was a good kiss."

John nearly jumped out of his skin when Sherlock responded, not with a cold quip, but by laughing. It was a deep, intoxicating sound, and one John had been enamoured with since their first day running through the secret streets of London. He couldn't help but join in.

Sherlock halted him, however, by taking John's face in hand and guiding their mouths together. At first, the kiss was frantic, a tumble of moist skin and hot breath and the occasional graze of teeth. But then, slowly, it calmed into something else. Their tongues became delicate in their strokes, lips linking softly. John inhaled Sherlock's breath deep into his lungs, a mix of sour and sharp and _Sherlock_. The taste inspired a rush of fondness for his flatmate that came to dominate his aggravation and idolization of the man, and he poured that feeling into their kiss, just as he had done in the bath.

Before long Sherlock was panting beneath him, trembling as he was before.

"This—it's different—" Sherlock whispered against his lips. John nodded, rubbing the sides of their noses together.

"Did anyone else…have you—"

"No. I told you no."

"You tell me a lot of things."

Sherlock's brow furrowed at that and he pulled back a fraction. John met his eyes steadily.

"I don't lie to you."

"You have."

Though it was entirely possible he'd imagined it, John could swear a flicker of hurt glinted behind grey eyes.

"Only when I deemed it necessary."

"Not exactly comforting, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed right into John's mouth, the rush of taste momentarily dazing him.

"I…I try not to. I'm not always accustomed to…to—"

"Being accountable to someone?"

A pause. Their eyes stayed locked.

"Perhaps." Sherlock licked his lips, visibly trying to craft his thoughts into his next words. "You didn't ask, but it should be understood that you are the first person I've been able to live with civilly."

"By 'civilly' do you mean without them wanting to kill you?" John asked playfully, letting the corner of his lip quirk up.

"I mean you're the only person," Sherlock answered seriously. He didn't appear to appreciate John's attempt to lighten the mood.

"The only person?" John repeated quietly.

"Yes. The only person."

Though on the surface it appeared that they were merely discussing their success as flatmates, John sensed deeper layers coursing beneath the statement. Sherlock's eyes were blazing, as though he was desperately trying to convey something to John without having the resolve to say the words. John pressed their foreheads together, eyes slipping closed.

"What makes me different?" he murmured, bravely and perhaps stupidly repeating his last question.

There was a long moment where Sherlock didn't speak, didn't even breathe, and John could kindle some hope that he might be answered. But, when his lips met John's, hard, and broke the stasis, he knew he'd been foolish to hope for more.

Still, Sherlock's mouth was warm and coaxing, effortlessly distracting him from his discouragement. Moaning into the plump lips, John grinded down against Sherlock's hip and felt himself swell. He found a rhythm, and Sherlock met his thrusts, pushing up against him and wrapping his arms tight around John's back.

"Jesus," John moaned, breathless, as the hot, still vaguely wet skin of their cocks pressed together. His head fell to Sherlock's neck so he could kiss the pulse point, and Sherlock tilted his head to side, bearing his throat for more. John nipped, then laved his tongue over the spot in apology. He pulled back a fraction to watch the blood rise to the surface with fascination. Sherlock's skin was so easily mark-able, as pale as it was. He was beginning to see the appeal of those apparent biting proclivities.

John's breath hitched as a slender hand snuck between their bodies and gripped the both of them. The palm was slick, Sherlock clearly having licked it when John was busy marking. Feeling the bottom of his shaft pressed against another was entirely foreign to John, and while he recognized how easily their position could panic him if he let it, he opted for a bit of bravery.

After sliding his tongue across his palm, John reached down and wove his fingers through Sherlock's, forming a wet ring around their cocks. With a smooth thrust of his hips he guided both of them through it. They moaned in unison, mouths clashing together with fervor, as John picked up the pace and tightened his grip.

"This feels…new," he said breathily against Sherlock's lips.

"Good?"

"Very—_ah_—good." He swallowed. "I don't…really think…I'm gonna' be able to last too long."

"I guessed as much." John would have been offended, but he was intimately aware of how achingly hard Sherlock was, so he figured the lack of stamina was mutual. Besides, not every near-forty man could get it up so quickly twice in one day.

After a hard kiss, John let his forehead fall to the crease of Sherlock's neck and shoulder, never letting the rhythm of his hips falter. He mouthed over Sherlock's collar bone, his shoulder, the side of his throat, savouring the scent of bath salts on his skin.

"I told you," he couldn't resist taunting.

"Told me what?"

"That I'd command your focus."

"You said you wanted to, not that you would."

"Semantics."

"I hardly think—"

"Sherlock," John snapped, an edge to his tone. "Save the smart arse for someone who isn't currently wanking you off, alright?"

"I see your logic. Proceed."

John rolled his eyes, but returned his attention to Sherlock's neck and the roll of his hips. Soon, he was swallowing back moans on every breath, his body quivering as his blood rushed.

"Do you want me to, uh—"

"What?" Sherlock gasped, arching a bit and shuddering. To hold him steady, John hooked his arm beneath Sherlock's back, grabbing onto his shoulder and pressing his fingers into the clavicle.

"Bite you. Would you want that? Can I bite you?"

"Do it," Sherlock gritted out through his teeth. Heat was coiled in John's belly, ready to snap. Sherlock was taut as a drawn bow in his arms, his eyes tightly shut.

When the pleasure reached its peak, a burst of warmth and tingling pleasure surging through him, John's teeth clamped down on the side of Sherlock's neck. Even though John was careful not to break skin, the bite was like a trigger for Sherlock, sending him into what must have been a surprising orgasm. His head threw back, and with a deep, broken moan Sherlock spilled in their hands, his back bowed and legs quivering through the pulses as John pinned him with mouth and body.

As they came down from the high, John licked soothingly at the white and pink bite mark while Sherlock lay boneless beneath him. Sherlock's chest was heaving with deep breaths, his whole face and neck flushed prettily, his eyes glazed over.

"You look—" John began, once he'd finished with Sherlock's neck and pulled up enough to look at the man's face. Unfortunately, he wasn't sure how to articulate how his flatmate looked without either agitating him or making himself look overly sentimental.

"I look the same as you do," Sherlock charitably replied, saving John from having to paraphrase words like "wrecked" and "beautiful" and get himself in trouble.

"I'm tired," John sighed, rolling off and releasing Sherlock's hand, grimacing a bit when he realized how sticky his fingers were. Squirming, Sherlock pulled the towel he'd had on his shoulders from beneath his body and used it wipe himself clean before handing it to John.

"You didn't sleep well last night. Was the novelty of the sleeper train not as 'neat' in hindsight?"

"It wasn't the train's fault that you wedged yourself into my bed and took up all the room."

"Sleeping together is what couples _do_, John. You can only blame yourself for insisting we abide by social conventions."

"I'm far too knackered to point out all the reasons why that statement is ridiculous right now," John said, tossing the soiled towel to the floor since he was finished with it. "I'm having a kip." He drew back the covers and flopped between them gracelessly, immediately comfortable by the combination of infinity-count sheets and post-orgasm calm.

"I won't be able to sleep," Sherlock said quietly behind him.

"I know. It's…just find a book or something, I won't be long," John mumbled into the unnaturally cool, soft pillow. His eyelids were heavy, slipping shut of their own accord. He felt like his limbs were sinking into the mattress, reveling in having a proper bed. Sherlock wasn't exaggerating when he'd said John hadn't slept well in the train.

Within minutes he was out cold, burrowed in a dreamless sleep that he so desperately needed.

Unfortunately, when he woke up some three and a half hours later, Sherlock was gone.

**Author's Note: Sherlock, where'd you run off to, you little shit...**

**Silly Sherlock. Anyways, I'd like to extend a HUGE thank you to those of you who always leave me such wonderful reviews. Life has done everything in its stupid power to keep me away from my fics so I've been an absolute cankerblossom at replying to you lovely people. I promise that in the next few days I'm going to do my best to go back and reply to as many as I can, so please don't let my failure dissuade you from reviewing. I love them so much. They fill my soul with love and cookies and pegasus unicorns. Truly, they mean so much.  
**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: SLIGHTLY shorter chapter but I promise that was due to plot logic rather than laziness. There will only be one (probably two) more chapters to go (AHHHH ALMOST THERE) in this trilogy, so hold onto your butts! The end is nigh! **

Once John dressed, pulling on the same clothes he'd been wearing earlier, and wrangled his hair into something vaguely presentable, he set off in search of his flatmate. He was agitated, both with Sherlock for wandering off like some unruly child in a Tesco's, and with himself for thinking the 'no mobiles' rule was a good idea. As he punched in the button for the lift, his thoughts started buzzing with all sorts of horrible possible reasons behind Sherlock's disappearance.

Was he going to meet with Victor? John knew it was jealousy rather than evidence that spawned the question, but he couldn't think of anything else Sherlock would occupy his time with. Shuffle board? A swim in the pool? Flying a kite? It was absurd. And if there was indeed nothing Sherlock ran away to do, did he leave simply to get away from John? Their morning had been pretty emotionally intense. It was entirely possible that John's foolish compulsion to touch and kiss Sherlock with all his feelings towards the man pouring from him had been too much. Had he just gone too far?

By the time the lift doors slid open John was shaking with anxiety. He lunged inside and frantically pushed the first floor button about eight times more than necessary. As he descended, the floor numbers ticked by unfathomably slow above him, and he was nearly bouncing on his feet once he came to a stop.

When the doors opened again, John strode into the lobby with his fists clenched at his sides at his back rail straight. With his mouth set in a determined line, he approached the front desk where the woman from earlier was still working.

As he asked her questions about the whereabouts of his flatmate, John quickly realized that despite his best efforts to avoid casework, he had a proper mystery on his hands.

* * *

By the time the sun slipped beneath the line of the horizon, John was vividly acquainted with the hotel's layout, being that he'd searched every possible crevice, from banquet hall to restaurant to spa, with no sign of the detective. He shuffled back through the lobby, tired and defeated, resigned to the fact that Sherlock simply didn't want to be found. It was unavoidable: John had done something wrong. Unfortunately, the more he tried to discern exactly what that something was, the cloudier the reason became. By this point John even found the theory that Sherlock had finally fulfilled his childhood dream of being a pirate and commandeered some nearby ship to be plausible.

When he walked by the hotel bar adjoining the lobby, which was the very first place he'd looked for Sherlock a few hours prior, he realized that he'd never wanted (or deserved) a whisky more in his entire life. With heavy steps he made his way to the bartender, eyes locked on the undoubtedly overpriced selection of scotch displayed behind him.

"For the love of God, get me a BenRiach single malt. The twelve year, please."

"Arigh'," the man replied curtly before turning to pour the drink. John was mildly wistful for the bartender at The Last Drop, who was likely the greatest master of his profession of all time if John's memory served, or at least, what was left of his memory.

John slapped a ten pound note on the bar once he had the scotch in hand before turning and plopping into the nearest stool.

Just as he took a swig, he caught sight of a very familiar dark-haired figure across the room, and nearly choked. Someone was in deep trouble.

"Son of a bitch," John hissed in disbelief. He'd spent the whole afternoon in a desperate search for Sherlock and here the man was; in the bar…drinking…and he wasn't alone.

Sitting across from him at a small table was none other than a broadly smiling Victor Trevor.

Chugging the rest of his drink, and wincing a bit at the burn and the abhorrent manner at which he'd just consumed good scotch, John slid off his stool. As he began stomping towards them, the pair toasted with glasses of red wine and laughed. John's whole face flushed hot at the sight, his teeth grinding together.

"Sherlock," John growled, low, when he came to stand before the table. He glared down at his flatmate, looming over him menacingly.

"Ah, John. I was just on my way to retrieve you," Sherlock said casually, seemingly oblivious.

"Were you," John replied flatly. He flexed his fingers at his side, dislodging his fingernails from where they'd embedded in his palms.

"Ah, John! Good to see you again."

"Victor."

"You look a bit peaky. Are you feeling alright?" Victor asked in a courteous tone. His large green eyes were gentle and sincere in a manner that made John want to gouge them out with a spoon and feed them to a goat.

"Fine. Sherlock—"

"John, why don't you sit and have a drink with us," Sherlock interrupted, taking a sip of his wine and, if John didn't know any better, batting his eyelashes.

"Yes, that would be lovely. That is, if you're sure you're feeling alright," Victor added.

John stared at Sherlock, hoping that the man who seemed to be forever able to read his thoughts could decipher them now. He was telepathically conveying something along the lines of 'if you don't come up to our room with me right now I'm never touching your penis again.'

"I think it's best if I go back to the room," John said, making the unspoken 'with you' as blatant as possible.

Unfortunately Sherlock, by either accidental or purposeful ignorance, didn't get the message.

"Very well. I think I'll stay with Victor a little while longer. It seems he holds rather incriminating information on certain classmates of ours that I am very interested in hearing." And with a smile, Sherlock turned back to Victor, blocking John out completely.

With as much pride as he could salvage, John turned and walked away. Just as he was about to enter the lobby, he turned back and approached the bar once more.

"How much for that bottle of BenRiach," he snapped to the bartender.

"We only sell per glass, sir," the man replied phlegmatically.

John pulled out his wallet and slammed its contents down on the bar top.

"Here's a hundred quid. Pretend I ordered a really big glass."

The bartender looked shiftily from side to side as though management was spying on them, before quickly snatching up the money and handing over the bottle.

Rather unsubtly, John hid the bottle beneath the fold of his coat and strolled out towards the lifts. Apparently he'd been wrong; the master bartender of The Last Drop was the _second_ best of all time.

* * *

A few hours later found John sitting in their enormous bed, alone, wearing nothing but pants and a t-shirt with the whisky bottle cradled in his arm like a baby. He tried to focus on the telly, which was playing some Doctor Who rerun, but couldn't get the room to stop spinning long enough to follow the plot.

When Sherlock returned, shutting the door behind him and shrugging the coat from his shoulders, John didn't even meet his eyes.

"You overpaid," the detective said quietly, sauntering across the room and dropping his coat on an armchair.

"_What?_" John snapped, finally meeting Sherlock's gaze. The detective looked disapproving, his hands resting on his narrow hips.

"A hundred quid for _that_ bottle of scotch? You must have been rather desperate."

"I like this scotch," John snarled, clutching the bottle tighter to his chest.

"Apparently."

"Not that it's any of your business."

"You're slurring."

"I'm allowed to!" John took a swig from the BenRiach to drive home the point. "Did you have fun with _Victor_?" He spat the name like it had a foul odor. Sherlock tilted his head to the side, appraising.

"You're fortunate I find jealousy an endearing trait on you. As I understand it, most would think it unattractive."

"Is that why you did it? To make me attractive?"

"What?"

John just shook his head, the movement inducing an odd, vertigo-like effect between his ears. The corners of his lips turned down.

"I looked for you all day, Sherlock. I even went into the _spa_ to find you, only to discover you were chumming it up with Victor bloody Trevor the whole time—"

"I wasn't—"

"And then you wouldn't even come up to the room with me when it's _our_ bloody holiday. For Christ's sake I _missed_ you…I mean, I kept missing you, missed finding you, I mean. Shit."

"I lost track of time."

"I don't even know why I thought this holiday was a good idea. It's…you know, it's my fault. I knew you'd get bored of me…I knew…I…I'm stupid. And I'm pissed. I'm stupid and I'm pissed."

"Yes, you are." Sherlock let his hands fall from hips and took the few steps to John. He sat on the edge of the bed, hip pressed warmly into John's side, and took the bottle from his hands.

"I—I tried to make it interesting. The bath wasn't so bad, right?"

"No," Sherlock replied, gently, as he placed the nearly-empty bottle on the nightstand.

"See, I don't even know if that 'no' means 'yes' or 'no.'"

"No, it wasn't so bad."

"And what's so special about that guy anyway?" John knew he was jumping between thoughts a bit, but if Sherlock could deduce a murderer from a stain on their shirt cuffs, he could damn well follow a drunken conversation thread. "So his hair is great and he's polite and smart and successful…"

"Sounds like I'm the one who should be jealous—"

"I think he's boring! Boring and perfect. Perfectly boring."

"I'll be sure to tell him you think so."

"I need to go to sleep," John sighed, rubbing a hand clumsily over his face, catching his lip a bit on a finger.

"You really do."

John scrambled to fit himself between the bedclothes and, with some help from Sherlock, managed it after only two failed attempts.

Sherlock splayed his hand on John's solar plexus once John was settled against his pillows. The warmth of Sherlock's palm bled through his undershirt, and John's heartbeat seemed to rise up to the contact, beating into the hand as though trying to keep it close.

"If you want to swan off again tomorrow, you can. I won't stop you," John conceded, eyelids drooping.

"We'll see."

"As long as we have sex again. It would be such a waste if we didn't have sex."

The corner of Sherlock's lip quirked up.

"I'll make a note of it."

"And I would rather you didn't have sex with Victor. I don't know if I can say that, but I'm saying it: don't have sex with Victor."

"Wasn't planning on it."

"Good." John nodded, face relaxed, but then frowned again. "I'm still mad at you."

"I know."

Sherlock rubbed his palm in a small circle. The motion was incredibly soothing, and a contented hum broke from John's throat before he could swallow it back.

"You're not a very good boyfriend," John tried to snap, but the words sounded more fond than accusatory. He blamed the pleasant pressure on his chest.

"Boyfriend?"

"Yep. What else should I call you? I'm a great boyfriend, you know. Even Jeanette said so. She said you're a very lucky man." The words were getting caught on his lips, coming out slow and muddled.

Sherlock hummed noncommittally.

"I wish I had taken your virginity," John mumbled, as the delicate fingers of sleep pulled at him, bringing him under. "Instead of him."

"Do you?"

"I don't know why, but I do."

And just as the last of his consciousness faded, drowning in the mix of alcohol and exhaustion from the day's search, he swore he heard the words "me too," and felt the soft press of lips against the corner of his eyelid. But before he could be certain, he was deeply asleep.

* * *

When John's eyes blinked open, it was dark in their room. He was no longer completely intoxicated, but the buzz lingered, making his thoughts cloudy and slow. Gauging that, he couldn't have been asleep for more than a couple hours.

He was lying on his side, a long arm wrapped around his torso. A sigh broke from his lips, and the body pressed flush against his back stirred in response. Sherlock always was a light sleeper. Turning around, John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist, pushing his leg between slender thighs. He found the man's plump lips in the dark, meeting them with his own in a sleepy kiss. A purr rumbled from the body in his arms, and he found himself pulled closer.

Deepening the kiss, John dipped his tongue into Sherlock's eager mouth. The man was so pliant in half-sleep, so warm and tender. It felt like a stolen moment, hardly more tangible than a dream in the dark. A variety of words threatened to escape his mouth, all sentimental and stupid and romantic in way that Sherlock would despise, so he held them back. He was proud of himself for staying silent, especially given his drowsy, inebriated state.

With a last kiss to Sherlock's cheek, John settled in, burrowing into Sherlock's collar and breathing deeply. Sherlock's hand rubbed up and down his back soothingly, and guided him to sleep once more.

**Author's Note:** **I figure this is as good a time as any to extend a special thank you to one of my favorite readers: bennyslegs. This girl has been supportive and kind in a way that is genuinely responsible for this project getting as far as it has. She has an impeccable sense of humor, a beautiful heart, and ****an astoundingly creative mind. The world would be a far better place if there were more people like bennyslegs gracing its surface. Paula, my dear, thank you so much. I love you to pieces.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Notes: Alright guys. This chapter's pretty intense...probably the most intense chapter of this trilogy, in fact. It's a culmination of a lot of things, but hold on tight because the happy ending is coming soon!**

Within five minutes of waking the following morning John had managed, quite impressively, to work himself into the most potent, headache-fueled, all-consuming rage of his life.

Sherlock was missing. Again.

John paced the length of the room, stomping his feet with his fists clenched, and letting out the occasional growl of fury.

When he had realized that Sherlock was not only absent from their bed, but from their suite entirely, he was at first gutted with a wave of abandonment and failure. No matter what he'd done or said, even giving Sherlock free reign to leave in a fumbling attempt at reverse psychology, he could not keep the man by his side. Surrender like he'd never known hung heavy on him. He'd pulled on his clothes sluggishly, not bothering to tidy his hair or straighten his collar.

Quickly, though, as he'd replayed the events of the previous day and pieced together the entirety of their foggy, drunken encounter of the night, his hurt had morphed into blazing ire. He felt endlessly foolish for letting Sherlock walk all over him and then forgiving the man without receiving the slightest hint of an apology. Thinking back, he really should have avoided the scotch and gone straight for the vodka. Scotch had a way of making him understanding, melancholy, and forgiving, while vodka stoked rage as it would a fire. He never should have let Sherlock sleep in their bed. And worse, he'd even _kissed_ him in the middle of the night as though nothing was wrong. He was thoroughly disgusted with both himself and his pathetic lack of resolve.

Who, exactly, did Sherlock think he was? John was a _catch_, damnit. An aging, thrill-seeking, slightly traumatized catch, but a catch just the same. Plenty of women would consider themselves lucky to have a dedicated partner like him. Or at least, they would if he'd spent any length of time paying attention to them instead of his emotionally deprived flatmate. It was yet another example of how he let Sherlock dictate his life.

Sherlock, who, despite his brilliance, scathing sense of humour, and sexual talents, had to be the most difficult person to live with on the face of the earth. And yet, John managed it! He put up with each decaying body part and heartless jab with a strong jaw and endlessly patient demeanor. He should be the one abandoning Sherlock on the first holiday he'd taken in a decade, not the other way around.

By the time the door creaked open an hour later and Sherlock, with a high flush to his cheeks and happy light in his eyes, stepped back into their room, John was about ready to explode.

"Where the _fuck_ have you been?" John bellowed, stopping Sherlock dead in his tracks as the door clicked shut behind him.

"Pardon?"

"Don't you dare 'pardon' me, you absolute bastard. You know bloody well what I said."

"Why are you so angry?" Sherlock blinked owlishly at him, slowly removing the coat from his shoulders and tossing it on the nearby desk.

"Angry? No, I'm not _angry_, Sherlock, no. I'm fucking _furious_."

"Ah."

"So let's try this again, and do yourself a favour and don't lie to me as you always do."

"I don't always—"

"Where. the. fuck. have. you. been?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, linking his hands behind his back and straightening his spine.

"I would tell you," he said calmly, "but—"

John felt as though the vein in his forehead could be visible from space, it was throbbing so violently.

"Tell me. _Now_."

"You did say last night that I could take leave if I wanted to."

"Sherlock," John hissed through gritted teeth.

"It's hardly my fault you reneged on your word after I'd gone."

"_Sherlock_."

"I'd only tried to give you a quiet morning to recuperate, given the stupor you'd drunk yourself into last night."

"I swear—"

"And you really were very intoxicated last night, John. I can't be responsible for sifting through the mess of statements you meant and those you only said because—"

"Tell me, right now, or I swear on my life, Sherlock, I will walk out that door and I will not be there when you get back to Baker Street."

In a way that nearly shocked John out of his anger (but not quite), Sherlock's whole body flinched and the color leeched from his face in an instant. He reigned himself in quickly though, even if his flippant tone barely concealed the unsettlement within.

"You wouldn't," he said, eyes darting over John's face.

"I really would." John was actually impressed with how cold and toneless the words had come out. He watched Sherlock's Adam's apple bob in his throat.

"I was…engaged," Sherlock said hesitantly, walking past John to their bay windows and gazing out. His back was sharp with tension.

"_With what?_" John snapped, his reserve of patience bone dry, as he turned towards him.

Sherlock let out a deep, surrendering sigh, his shoulders slumping.

"There was a case—"

Though John did not think it possible, his rage crowned to an unprecedented height, shooting through his every vein like molten, whiting out the corners of his vision. In a desperate attempt to release some the blistering pressure of anger, as though he were a kettle ready to burst, he grabbed the closest thing to him, which happened to be Sherlock's duffle, and threw it as hard as could across the room. It collided with a table lamp, instantly shattering it and filling the room with such a startling sound that Sherlock winced and stumbled, his wide eyes locking on John's heaving form. Sherlock's belongings tumbled across the floor, a mass of expensive shirts, too many socks, and books.

"I asked you for _one thing_," John growled, the words broken by his shuddering breaths. "And you couldn't even do that for me."

"John, I—"

"Get out."

"No, wait, I can—"

"I said get out."

"Please—"

John advanced on him, Sherlock's plea more offensive than any fake apology could ever be.

"You pretend that you care," John spat, on his toes now, just centimeters from Sherlock's pale face. "But you feel nothing."

Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat, his every facial muscle going rigid. John's headache throbbed, the pain entrenching him in the anger, making him impervious to the entirely foreign expression on the detective's face.

"I—I need the cases, John. It's who I am. I thought you understood that. You can't just expect me to completely—I can't just—"

"Oh, I understand _perfectly_, and I don't know how I was so stupid as to think this would work. You couldn't even think about me, just me, for one day, could you? It's not in your nature, is it, you…you fucking sociopath, to think of anyone but yourself?"

Sherlock's bottom twitched ever-so-slightly, his eyes glimmering turquoise in the window light.

"I suppose not." The words were so deep, so quiet, John never would have heard them if he weren't so close, with Sherlock's breath caressing over his face.

"Tell me, Sherlock, was it a good case? Interesting? Did it distract from this _horrible_ holiday I forced you into?"

Sherlock's lips cracked open but John barreled on before he could speak.

"How hard did you have to fight to find a case, huh? Harder than you fought to do as I asked, surely."

Eyes flickering back and forth, Sherlock seemed to have trouble meeting John's gaze for the first time in their friendship.

"You still made plenty of time for Victor, though, didn't you."

Sherlock, in act of either extreme foolishness of reckless bravery, dared to roll his eyes.

"Don't you dare mock me for this," John sneered, grabbing hold of Sherlock's lapels and jostling him a bit. The detective didn't push his hand away.

"Do me a favour, will you?" Their eyes finally locked, though Sherlock was clearly reluctant. John put as much poison, as much disdain as he could muster into his next words. "For once in this horrible failure of a relationship, do as I ask and _get out_." He released his grip on Sherlock's jacket.

With a shuddering breath, Sherlock set his spine and chin, reigned in his expression, and stepped past John. John heard the slide of fabric as Sherlock grabbed his coat from where it lay on the desk, and the click of the latch as the door was pulled open.

And, though it was quiet, barely above a whisper, John heard the words "I'm sorry" just as the door slid shut again.

The breath rushed out of John's lungs, though he hadn't realized he'd been holding it, and he gasped painfully, clutching at the clawing ache in his chest. His eyes welled up with tears, completely beyond his control, and he wiped them away roughly against the fabric of his forearm. Taking a few staggering steps, he collapsed onto the bed. He cradled his pounding head in his hands, elbows braced on his knees.

"Shit," he breathed, rubbing shaking fingers through his hair mercilessly. Images of Sherlock's expression as he had yelled and cursed, the way all the spark and fervor had drained from his eyes; it ate at John like nothing he'd known, corroding his anger and making a thick, noxious guilt bleed into his thoughts.

But he had a _right_ to be angry, didn't he? Sherlock had abandoned him, without care for his entirely reasonable requests or his feelings. It was Sherlock who had coaxed him into this stupid romantic relationship in the first place, soiling a friendship that had been perfectly fine before. John should have torn that bloody list Sherlock had made to bits as soon as he'd seen it. It rationalized something that made absolutely no sense to anyone who knew what a partnership really meant. He'd known this would fail, known it would ruin the most precious thing he'd ever had, and yet he'd surrendered to Sherlock's logic despite his better judgment. There was a reason he'd never acted on his feelings, those pings of arousal and desire that clouded his reasoning, and here that reason was, blaring at him from such a place of agony, from which being shot could hardly compare.

He could see no coming back from this. They'd gone too far down the road to love, sacrificing everything for some carnal compulsion to share a bed and some orgasms.

Pushing himself to his feet, legs wobbling only a little, John set about cleaning the mess he'd made. He got down on his knees, picking up Sherlock's fine shirts and trousers where they lay in messy piles. Ignoring the hot, humiliating tear that tumbled down his cheek without his consent, John folded the clothes and placed them back in Sherlock's duffle. He sniffled, shuffling until he reached the books he'd encouraged Sherlock to pack in some feeble attempt to keep that great mind occupied. God, he should have known better. As if anything, even himself, could hold Sherlock's attentions for long.

Yet, just as he picked up the tattered copy of Gray's Anatomy, making to shove it back into the bag, a small piece of paper fluttered out from between the pages. He snatched at it, holding it up, only to realize that it was not paper at all, but the photograph of Sherlock, only seven years old and dressed as a pirate, that he'd hidden there some weeks before.

Before he could suppress it, a profound, consuming rush of fondness doused over him, demanding a smile from his lips. He sat back, leaning against the mattress of their bed and staring into the eyes of his partner, so young and untarnished by life.

For the first time in their acquaintance John felt as though he completely understood his friend. And not just glimpses spawned by patience, alcohol, or fever, but a complete, decadent comprehension.

He recalled their first meeting, when Sherlock had been a dark-eyed, tightly dressed mystery, taking John's secrets and baring him raw, not out of spite, but fascination. He thought of the first night they'd run together, when Sherlock had plucked his limp from his mind, slotting excitement, purpose, and laughter in its place. He remembered the times that Sherlock had saved him, from a smuggler boss and Jim Moriarty and some American agent pressing a gun into the nape of his neck. He heard in his mind "I'd be lost without my blogger," and "I don't have friends, I've just got one," and "You perplex me," and "J'ai besoin de toi." He thought of Sherlock's eyes the morning before, projecting a kind of lost vulnerability like John had never known, after he'd kissed him. And last, he remembered himself:

Sitting alone in his bedsit and so desperately sad, with his gun, just a few steps away, beckoning for him to end it all, because nothing, _nothing_ felt like it could ever be vibrant again.

He covered his mouth with a sweaty palm as the realization dawned on him. Yes, Sherlock had been closed off and accidentally cruel, but it was John who had set him up for failure. He'd demanded something of Sherlock that fought against everything the man was. In his fight to win Sherlock's attention, he'd taken the one thing from him that Sherlock desperately needed: a case. He wasn't wrong in believing that Sherlock had to invest more effort in their relationship, but to take it so far, to imply that the only way they would work is if Sherlock changed something so fundamental about his personality...it was wrong. And it wasn't even what he truly wanted.

Thinking about it, the fact that Sherlock had been sneaking out to solve a case, when he could have been cavorting with Victor or simply avoiding John because he disliked his company, why, it was almost a relief. He gazed down at the child version of his greatest friend, and knew that, despite the trip ups, the miscommunication, and the no doubt boundless difficulties to come, this was the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

With a rallying breath, he pushed himself to his feet, pulled on his coat, and stuffed the picture in the inner pocket.

"Sherlock?" he called as he barreled into the hallway, but was met only with silence. He jogged to the elevators, finding all of them on the ground floor. Unable to wait, he went for the stairs, taking them far too fast for safety, but making it to the bottom unharmed, if rather breathless.

"Sherlock?" he called again once he'd reached the lobby, but there was no sign of dark curls and a sweeping coat. Frantic now, he went to the front desk.

"Have you—" he began, swallowing and trying to control his breathing, "have you seen the man I came here with? I need to find him."

"Lost him again, have you?" asked the blonde woman, who never seemed to get a break from working.

"Yeah."

"Should put a leash on him."

"I'm thinking about it."

"He was just here. Went out the front doors not a moment—"

John didn't wait for her to finish, breaking into a run again and shoving past fellow guests, a few who cried out in shock, before pushing through the large entranceway. He looked about, at taxis and the small clusters of people on the landing, but saw nothing.

He took the closest walking path. His pace gradually slowed as he went. Hope leeched from him. If Sherlock didn't want to be found, there was nothing he could do. He'd learned that lesson well enough.

Yet, just as he was about to turn around and surrender, he caught sight of the back of a familiar figure in the distance.

Sitting on a bench, just a few feet from the rocky cliffs at the shore, was Sherlock. He was looking out at the water, alone and unmoving.

Exhaling deeply, John stuffed his hands in his pockets and approached. His steps were slow, careful, as though Sherlock were some wild animal that he might spook.

With another sigh he took the seat beside his partner, who did not turn to look at him. Both their gazes set out to the sea, and neither of them spoke for a long moment, simply listening to the polyphony of tumbling waves, gulls, and wind.

Quietly, delicately, John broke the stasis by reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out the photograph. He held it out to Sherlock. Grey eyes glanced down at the picture, though his expression revealed nothing and he did not take it from John's grasp.

"You can be very difficult, Sherlock," John murmured, not unkindly, looking down at the weathered image of his friend.

"I know," Sherlock said after a pause.

"This has not been easy."

"I know."

"But that doesn't mean I…it doesn't mean it's not worth it."

**Author's Note: *wipes away tear* My poor bbz. I need to be nicer to them. Hmm...how should I make it up to them? I know! SMUT. Bowchika wow wow! The next chapter, which will have butts (AFTER A MASSIVE EMOTIONAL DISCUSSION), will be the final chapter of this story as well as this trilogy. I can't believe (well, I can) that we're so close to the end! **

**Thank you so very much for sticking with it all this time. You guys are you just...just...the absolute tits.  
**


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: This message...it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note. Well, I'm not going to jump off a hospital and eat it after I write this particular note, but I might go sob in the corner out of both sheer adoration for you readers and debilitating exhaustion from cracking out this MASSIVE chapter over the last couple days. It's a big one. There was really no way to break it up, so here you go: the very last chapter in The First and Last Trilogy. Onward, my darlings. I love you so.**

Sherlock shook his head, a hapless smile curling his lips.

"What?" John asked. His brow furrowed as he glanced sideways at Sherlock's profile.

"I don't understand you," Sherlock said. His grin faded into a tight line.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock admitting that he didn't understand something, especially John, was about as jarring as if the man had confessed to a secret career as a mail order bride.

"There is no logical reason why this arrangement should be 'worth it' for you."

With a deep breath, John tucked the photograph back into his pocket and folded his hands together on his lap. Pursing his lips, he thought about his next words very carefully.

"'Logic' doesn't really have much to do with it. I care about you, very much actually, and as long as you put in effort, I always find that I get out of this as much as I put in."

"And you believe that I've put in an acceptable amount of effort." His tone was skeptical.

"Well, no."

Sherlock nodded. The corner of his mouth turned down. He looked dejected.

"But that doesn't mean we can't fix it," John added carefully.

Sherlock exhaled slowly through his nose, pulled his feet up onto the bench, and wrapped his arms around his knees. John always thought he looked ridiculously childlike, and admittedly adorable, when he sat like that.

"I don't know how."

The words sounded so lost, so hopeless, that John had to fight against the urge to wrap Sherlock in a hug and tell him to forget the whole business altogether. Yet, he resisted, knowing that if he didn't hold his ground he would never forgive himself.

"How about we just start with some simple honesty, yeah? And not because of a game or because we're drunk, but real honesty. As in, I ask you questions and you bloody answer them."

Sherlock nodded minutely.

"Okay. Why did you leave yesterday while I was sleeping?"

Sherlock swallowed, clearly rallying his resolve, and answered.

"I was very bored and I didn't want to wake you. I knew that I had deprived you of sleep when I shared your bed on the train."

"Where did you go?"

"To the lobby. I encountered Victor and a few of his business partners who were incidentally classmates of ours at Cambridge. They told me of a strange scandal they'd witnessed in the local village regarding a deceased girl and her two seemingly insane brothers. The rumor was that the 'Devil' was involved."

"Sounds interesting."

"Yes, I thought so. I went to the village to investigate."

"Why didn't you tell me before you left?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and stared down as his knees.

"Sherlock…"

"You said no cases."

"And you thought I would be angry with you if you told me, and that I'd keep you from going."

"It was a perfectly rational conclusion to draw."

"And you couldn't just say no to the case, could you." John knew he was pushing now, but it had to be done.

"I was so bored, John. I could feel it closing in on me, the 'black mood', as you call it. I thought if I just solved one case quickly, before you woke, I would be fit to return to you and enjoy your company without distraction."

"But you didn't solve it quickly."

"I lost track of time."

John groaned, knowing that Sherlock's excuse was weak, but found himself unable to ignore the raw honesty in those words. Sherlock did have a long-standing tendency to ignore time completely when he was caught in the throes of a case. Once he hadn't even noticed John had been away at a medical conference in Dublin until he got back. It was careless of him but not spiteful.

"Alright, fine. When I found you, though, you were with Victor. Drinking."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I had reason to believe one of his business partners, and my former classmate, was involved in the murder. I was working him for information."

"And you took no pleasure in 'working him' at all, I suppose," John asked cynically, feeling the familiar itch of jealousy flare.

When he glanced over at Sherlock, he found the detective smirking at him, clear eyes watching him through delicate lashes.

"Victor is good company. He is clever and courteous, not to mention intrigued by the work I do."

John gritted his teeth together.

"But there is no imaginable scenario," Sherlock went on, "where I would prefer his company over yours. The idea is so absurd it's laughable to me. It's why I find your jealousy so amusing. I suppose the reason I don't consider Victor a '_friend_' of mine, while you might, is that the partnership I have with you is on such a different plane that I could hardly use the same terminology to describe my acquaintance with any other person. It simply wouldn't fit."

John blushed, feeling his chest flutter at Sherlock's words. Alright, so maybe Victor wasn't really a problem.

"So that's why you wouldn't come up to the room with me? You were focused on the case."

"I admit now that it was extremely foolish and shortsighted of me to stay with Victor instead of going with you, especially when I saw you purchase an entire bottle of scotch."

"Shortsighted," John repeated, unable to keep his displeasure from the word.

"I have a tendency to be…oblivious to the feelings of others when I am involved in a case."

"Understatement of the century."

A short chuckle broke from Sherlock's throat. John was a bit too sore to reciprocate.

"You hurt me," John said quietly, and maybe a bit childishly.

The smile fled from Sherlock's mouth in an instant. His eyes darted to John's face.

"That is never my intention."

"Sometimes I feel as though you…you forget about me. Even when you're with me. It's as though you forget that some of the things you say, the way you say them, can hurt me. And I know you're like that with everyone else. It's just…I thought it was different with me."

Sherlock's forehead set in a deep frown and his gaze focused on the horizon. John pensively watched his profile, observing the unique curve of his nose and the moon-pale contours of his skin. He wondered how Sherlock might reply.

When the words came they sideswiped John, splitting open an ache in his chest and draining the air from his lungs:

"I am so much less than you deserve."

John tensed and bit his lip between his teeth. Sherlock was a man who shone with endless confidence, never recognizing his faults or deficiencies, even to the point of endangering himself. Yet here he was, proclaiming himself unworthy of John. John who could never, in his mind, compare to the legacy of Sherlock Holmes.

"That's not true," he said, reaching out. He placed a gentle hand on Sherlock's thigh.

"I am not…_good_, at this, John. And whether you think it's 'worth it' now, there will come a day when your patience runs dry, and you will leave me. You were close today."

"I wasn't…"

"You were, and you would have been right to. I-I cannot change who I am."

"I'm not asking you to."

"But without change, I cannot make you happy."

John shifted on the bench, charged with determination. He leaned in close to Sherlock.

"Listen to me, Sherlock, and listen very carefully." Sherlock turned his head, sad eyes locking with John's. John's grip on his thigh tightened. "I never, ever want you to change who you are. I fell in—I mean I came to care about you, all of you, because of your..._eccentricities_, not despite them. When you try for me, even in the smallest ways, it means so much more than anything another person could give me. The thing is, at times I feel as though I don't deserve you either, when you're being particularly brilliant or particularly difficult, but I do. We deserve each other, in every possible way, and that is never going to change."

Sherlock's eyes, with pupils pinhole thin, were burrowing into him. His gaze was unflinching and utterly open.

"With that understood," John continued, "I still need work from you. I need you to, at the very least, _attempt_ to see how your actions or your words affect me. I don't expect you to always succeed, but I have to know that you're trying. And I need to be strong enough to call you on it when you're being insensitive. I don't always push back when I should."

Sherlock blinked, finally breaking their eye contact. He raked a hand roughly through his hair.

"I—" his voice cracked. He took a breath before attempting speech again. "I ruined the holiday," he said, which wasn't exactly the response John was looking for, but somehow it worked just the same.

"There's still half of it left."

"How do I—how can I make this up to you?"

Slowly, John's lips curled into a grin.

"I might have been drunk off my arse at the time, but when I said this whole thing wouldn't be a waste as long as we had sex again, I meant it."

Sherlock let go a short laugh.

"Am I to understand that you wish to have what I believe couples refer to as 'make up sex'?"

"I really don't care what you call it as long as you let me fuck you."

Sherlock's head snapped to him, his eyes ridiculously wide. It took everything John had not to burst out laughing. He leaned close so that his lips just brushed the shell of Sherlock's ear.

"Kidding," he whispered through a smirk. He nipped Sherlock's earlobe.

"You really weren't."

"I was half-kidding."

"You were five percent kidding at most."

"And you're one hundred percent flustered at least."

"How can one hundred percent be the least of anything?"

"I don't know but you're pulling it off marvelously."

Without warning, Sherlock took John's face in his hands and kissed him, hard. All his thoughts whited out in an instant. Little stars fluttered behind his closed eyelids, and a small, surprised sound escaped his throat.

When Sherlock pulled back, it was only to press their foreheads together.

"I will," he breathed into John's mouth. Two words that could have meant anything, could have promised anything, yet John knew exactly what they meant.

"I know," he whispered back. After pressing a small kiss to the tip of Sherlock's nose, John cleared his throat. "Now, take me to bed this minute before I defile this bench."

"You want to defile the bench." Sherlock stated, confused. John huffed.

"I _meant_ defile _you_ on the bench, but you know, now that you mention it, this is a rather saucy looking—"

Sherlock cut him off abruptly by gripping his collar and hurling him to his feet. He set off back towards the hotel in long strides, dragging John, sputtering, behind him.

"Slow down, will you?"

"No chance. I'm taking you back to the room and you are going to fuck me, and I promise you, John, _I_ am not any percentile of kidding."

An elderly couple, who passed them on the path at exactly the wrong moment, gasped in abject horror. Though John could hardly spare a glance back with his collar held so firmly in Sherlock's clutches, he was at least fifty percent sure Sherlock had just given one of them a stroke.

* * *

Sherlock crowded John up against the door to their suite as it shut behind him. With forearms braced on either side of John's head, he caught his mouth in a penetrating kiss.

"I think…you might have…killed that old woman…back there," John gasped between kisses, grinding his hips down and dragging his fingers through dark curls. Each swipe of Sherlock's warm tongue against John's own sent a searing frisson of arousal down his spine, melting his balance away in its wake. "Just so you're aware." Sherlock wedged his thigh between John's legs and hiked him up.

"Irrelevant."

"It's like the perfect crime," John mumbled against plush lips, "murder by scandalous dirty talk."

Instead of replying, Sherlock wrapped one arm around John's waist, the other beneath his arse, and picked him up in a demonstration of unexpected strength. Despite his undignified yelp, John wound his legs around him automatically.

"I am quite capable of walking," he groused, holding on tight as he was gracefully carried to their bed.

"The way your knees were shaking would suggest otherwise."

John couldn't help but flush a little as he was laid on his back and Sherlock draped himself over his body.

"Too many clothes," he said by way of a deflection, fumbling to yank Sherlock's coat from his shoulders.

"I concur."

Pushing up onto his knees, Sherlock stripped his coat, jacket, and dress shirt. John had only managed to pull his own coat off by the time Sherlock joined their lips together again.

"Oh," John gasped when he felt the warm, smooth skin of Sherlock's bare back beneath his palms. He'd had an unacceptably minimal amount of time to touch Sherlock's nude form considering how many orgasms they'd shared. Savouring the opportunity, John ran his palms in slow circles. After imagining how all that creamy, fair skin would feel for so long, the reality seemed particularly astounding. Soon though, Sherlock tugged at John's jumper impatiently. He dragged it up until John was forced to relinquish his touch to help remove it.

"You're not nervous," Sherlock stated, with only the faintest hint of a question, as he tossed the jumper aside and set to work on the buttons of John's shirt. He eyed John curiously.

"Not really, actually, no," he agreed, surprised to find it was the truth. While he'd been steadily growing more confident with every sexual encounter they had, it was startling to feel so entirely comfortable with any and all possibilities. Perhaps it was their conversation by the sea, with such unadulterated honesty, that crumbled down the walls between them as never before.

In demonstration of his blossoming self-assurance, John clutched Sherlock's narrow hips between his hands. He held them down with a firm grip, and undulated up in turn. They both moaned softly at the contact.

"Do that again," Sherlock commanded, plucking the last of John's buttons free and pulling the shirt from his trousers. John gladly obeyed. He could feel his length swelling rapidly, matched by the obvious bulge between Sherlock's legs.

Surging upright, John shrugged the shirt from shoulders as fast as could. Sherlock, now straddling his lap, adjusted so that his legs circled John's waist, and linked his ankles together.

"Come on," John growled. He grabbed two handfuls of Sherlock's arse, reveling in how paradoxically plush and taut it felt, and thrust up as he simultaneously guided Sherlock down. Sherlock grunted into his ear. His arms were tight around John's shoulders.

"John," Sherlock murmured against his neck before nipping and sucking the side of his throat.

"Lower," John managed to object. "I can't cover a mark there."

"Precisely."

The word so deep, so possessive, the protest died on John's tongue. He rocked them together with renewed vigor.

Soon, though, the barrier of fabric between them lost its novelty and became unbearably frustrating. John needed more contact.

"Trousers. Off. Now."

He unceremoniously pushed Sherlock from his lap, dumping him on the bed. Undeterred, Sherlock made quick work of his trousers, pants, shoes, and socks, tossing them aside. Though John tried to keep up, he couldn't seem to get his fingers to work properly.

"Not my fault!" John chirped when Sherlock fixed him with a surly glare upon seeing how little he'd progressed at disrobing. With a few clever tugs, he divested John of the rest of his own clothes before the man had a chance to blink.

"How did you get so good at undressing people?" he asked, unavoidably curious, as Sherlock spread over him. He inhaled sharply at the sensation of so much warm, uncovered skin. Sherlock's intoxicating scent flooded his senses, familiar and dazzling.

"Corpses," Sherlock replied blandly, before pressing his mouth to John's throat.

"Why did I even ask?" John mumbled to himself, rolling his eyes.

Taking hold of slender arms, John turned them over until Sherlock was on his back. He fit his legs between Sherlock's, adjusting in increments until their erections aligned. Only then did he realize Sherlock had something in his hand. He raised an eyebrow at it before staring sideways at Sherlock's face.

"Lubricant," Sherlock said by way of an explanation.

"I didn't know you'd brought that."

"I predicted penetration was imminent, for which lubrication is necessary, once further sexual exploration with me afforded you your confidence."

"Ah…and you, uh, don't mind…being the one to…you know…"

"I had assumed you'd want to penetrate me initially, since you are accustomed to being with women and fit into the role more comfortably. I, myself, am ambivalent. It's all transport. Of course, I'm confident you'll eventually desire to try receiving since you are rather adventurous and possess that inherent desire to please. Once I convince you that 'topping' and 'bottoming' has little to no required correlation with dominance versus submission you're likely to be more receptive to experimentation."

"Right. That sounds…right."

"Perhaps I am over-thinking it."

"Yeah. I mean, honestly, I just want to have sex with you in a way I'm not shit at."

"Ah, I see. Definitely over-thinking it, then."

"'Over-thinking' is generally your default state of being. Now give me that bottle so I can shut you up properly."

Without waiting for a reply, John snatched up the lubricant, popped it open, and began generously coating a few fingers. Setting it aside, he reached between them, canting up his hips for enough space. They both gasped when his digits made contact.

"It's been a while since I've done this," Sherlock admitted breathily as John drew circles with the damp pads of two fingers.

"Well, I've never done it, so I'm sure we'll be perfectly awkward together."

"I'm never awkward in bed," Sherlock bit back defensively.

"Of course you're not." John punctuated his sardonic tone by pressing his middle finger in to the first knuckle. Sherlock's whole body shuddered at the intrusion, his legs coming up to wrap around John's torso.

Soothingly, John planted a series of gentle kisses from Sherlock's shoulder to the side of his neck. He licked at the pulse point, letting Sherlock grow accustomed to the stretch, before coaxing his finger in deeper.

"Alright?" John asked, voice hoarse, once Sherlock had managed to accommodate him to the knuckle. Sherlock nodded. His face was flushed prettily. "Now, this I _have_ done before, though the purpose was strictly medical, but if I'm not mistaken this is supposed to feel pretty g—" Sherlock cut him off by arching off the bed as soon as John's fingertip made contact with the small gland inside him.

"—good," John finished, grinning and pleased with himself. He let Sherlock come back down onto the bed before he slid his finger nearly out then in again several times. He coerced moan after moan, crooking his finger on every other thrust until Sherlock's flush spread down to his chest.

"A-another," Sherlock ground out, and John delicately obliged.

"Did you happen to bring condoms too?" John asked once he thought Sherlock might be capable of speech.

"I am clean. Mycroft insisted I get tested after my last…well…episode with the-"

"Right."

"And I know you are as well."

"We should still—"

"John. I made sure. We don't need one."

Though it chafed against his better instincts as a medical man, John conceded. He hoped the fact that he desperately wanted to be inside Sherlock with nothing between him didn't have too much sway on his surrender, but at the moment, with so much bare, beauty marked skin before him, it was hard to argue the point.

Once Sherlock was stretched enough to comfortably allow three fingers, and only after many minutes of leisurely preparation, John sat back on his haunches.

"Ready?" he asked, removing those fingers and slicking himself up. He added perhaps more lubricant than necessary, but figured too much was always preferable to too little.

"Of course I'm ready." Though Sherlock's tone was acerbic, John did not fail to catch the shudder behind the words.

"Okay then."

Dark blue eyes caught with pale grey. John leaned over him, lining up and hooking his elbows behind Sherlock's knees to bear him open. Taking hold of John's cock with a trembling hand, Sherlock guided him until he was just barely inside.

"Come on," Sherlock growled, squeezing his legs against John's arms to draw him closer.

"Always so impatient," John muttered through clenched teeth.

Their eyes were deeply locked, mouths breathing warm, shallow breaths against each other.

Slowly, bit by glorious bit, John pushed inside. The hot, tight drag was nearly unbearable, rooting an overwhelming flutter of emotion within the cage of his ribs. He felt it with each pound of his heart, igniting at every place where their bodies made contact. When he was finally sheathed to the hilt, they were both panting wildly.

"That feels…really fucking good," John groaned, holding himself still.

"Yes," Sherlock replied simply, though his eyes were projecting far more potent affirmation. The sight made John open, soft, and maybe a bit stupid, so he let words fall from his mouth unchecked.

"It's never really…felt like this before." John winced at the confession. Sherlock found sentiment in at all its forms to be a deplorable weakness of humanity, pillow talk or not. Which was why he was thoroughly surprised when Sherlock's reply was not scathing in the slightest.

"Nothing feels the same with you."

Smile tugging at the corner of his lips, John rocked his pelvis in a shallow thrust, relishing the way Sherlock's eyes nearly rolled to the back of his head.

"That's the reason I—ah—hate it when you call me by that nickname," John confessed. His thrusts slowly grew in depth and pressure. "I don't like you thinking of me as that person. I'm—_oh_—not that person with you." It seemed that once his slip into honesty was allowed, a veritable floodgate was opened inside of him. He couldn't stop the words from tumbling from his mouth, especially when each push of his hips misted his thoughts in a haze of arousal. "There's only you."

"You said that I feel nothing," Sherlock whispered back, neither accusatory nor mournful. He held John as close as possible, one hand gripping his nape, the other splayed on his hip. They moved together in perfect unity.

"It's not true. I'm sorry." John let his head fall so he could suck a kiss on the juncture between Sherlock's neck and shoulder, though he quickly resurfaced to rejoin their eye contact. "You know I don't believe that."

"It was true. I don't feel anything for most people. But I—_yes_, like that, do that again—it's not the same with you."

Unable to resist, John crushed their lips together, effectively cutting off their sex-fueled honesty splurge. Somehow, he'd managed to keep his rhythm fairly consistent thus far despite their conversation, a feat he was rather proud of.

When he bent Sherlock a fraction more to better access his lips, he inadvertently hit that spot that had Sherlock arching, legs shaking with faint tremors.

"_There_. _God_, there," gasped the detective.

Immediately, their kiss amplified into a messy clash of tongues and teeth. John could hardly control the whimpers and groans he was making, nor did he bother when Sherlock was emitting similar sounds beneath him. Every time he thrust deep, hitting his target with surprising precision, Sherlock abandoned his composure a little bit more.

"I'm not gonna'…last much…longer," John panted, pulling back a fraction to see Sherlock's eyes.

"It's mutual."

John laughed. Sherlock met it with a wry smile and hazy eyes.

"Should I…should I touch you?" John asked hesitantly. Though he wasn't nervous he still didn't know the exact details of this kind of sex, or what was expected of him. Dragging his hand from its grip on Sherlock's flank, he worked it between their bodies and took Sherlock in hand tentatively. He raised his eyebrows, silently asking if the touch was acceptable.

"Yes. That's—yes."

Pressing a hard kiss to Sherlock's moist lips, John began stroking in time with his thrusts.

"Don't stop doing that."

"I won't."

John was sweating and his heart was pounding. His awareness of everything around him faded into a haze of building pleasure, blurring the barriers between his body and Sherlock's.

"Close," Sherlock announced, his words dragging John back to himself a little.

"Come on. Let me see you come. Give it to me, Sherlock."

"John."

"Yeah, that's it."

His hips became frantic, his thrusts ramming harder and harder. His grip on Sherlock's cock, slick from residual lubricant and a few beads pre-cum, was tight and unforgiving.

"I will, John," Sherlock growled, suddenly deathly serious, and he took John's face in his slender hands. Without explanation John knew where Sherlock's thoughts had jumped. He was repeating his promise from earlier, desperate and genuine.

"I know."

"_I will_."

"I know, Sherlock. I know."

"I'm sorry."

"I know, it's okay. Come for me now."

As though his request pulled a trigger inside the detective, Sherlock tensed and spilled himself with a rattling moan over John's hand and his own belly. The sensation of Sherlock clenching around him in his pleasure, with such a devastating expression on his face, sent John over the edge in an instant. Biting Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth, John buried deep and came so hard his vision blurred.

Pulse after pulse was wrung from him, bringing him down, as his thrusts grew shorter and shallower.

"Jesus," he gasped when the last of it trailed away. Collapsing on top of Sherlock's limp body, he rested his forehead against his shoulder.

For a long while they simply lay there heavily, panting and damp with sweat and cum. John was fairly sure he'd shorted out most of his brain cells, since latching onto any particular thought with conviction was proving impossibly difficult.

"John?" Sherlock asked eventually, rubbing his hands up and down his back. John nearly purred at the soothing contact.

"Yeah?"

"You stole that picture of me from my dresser, didn't you."

"I did, yeah."

"I think," Sherlock paused, swallowing and clearly trying to catch his breath, "that I'm a bad influence on you."

"Probably. But I like it."

Slowly, their breathing evened out. The physical connection between them severed when John went soft and slipped out.

"Sherlock?"

"Mhmm?"

John, with great effort, braced up onto his elbows so he could look into the detective's eyes.

"About that case…"

"Yes?"

"Did you solve it?"

A grin teased at the edge of Sherlock's swollen lips.

"Almost."

"Well, that won't do at all."

"No, not at all."

"I suppose we'll just have to go solve it together, then," John said through a smile he knew looked fairly ridiculous. He couldn't find it in him to care.

"Perhaps we should put some clothes on first."

"What a clever idea. You must be a genius."

"It's been suggested."

Then, simply because he could, John kissed Sherlock with as much joy and endearment and love as he could manage. He let everything he felt pour freely from him, inscribed into each brush of lips and graze of tongue. When he leaned back, Sherlock was watching him with glassy grey eyes.

"You'll have to teach me how to kiss like that," Sherlock said.

"Sure. We have plenty of time."

"Is that so?" There was a hint of a question, of apprehension in his tone.

"Obvious," John replied, and Sherlock kissed the smirk from his mouth.

* * *

By the time they boarded the night train home a few days later, a brilliant, perfectly solved case behind them, they both agreed that it was the best holiday they'd ever taken.

And as John drifted into sleep with far too much detective in far too small a bed, he knew that while it was the first time he'd ever felt so incandescently happy, it would hardly be the last.

THE END

**Author's Note: ...or is it?**

**The thing is that while the actual story of 'The First and Last Trilogy' is irrevocably finished, I would like to write an appendix including a few short missing/additional scenes. For example: John's blackout in 'The Last Drop' from Sherlock's perspective, or the first time John bottoms post the end of 'The First Trip.' For this collection of one-shots I would absolutely love to take requests from you wonderful readers. If there is a scene you'd like to see or something you might want explored further, feel free to message me on tumblr and I would be happy to see what I can do. My url is rageofthenerd and there is a link for it on my profile page. And even if you just wanna come say hi it's probably the best place to reach me. I would love to hear from you.**

**Now that that's out of the way I can get a little shmoozy: thank you (yes, you) so incredibly much for your support on this project. You have made me a better writer in every way imaginable. There are simply no words to convey exactly how much your kind messages and constructive criticisms have meant to me, and I'm saying this after posting a 5000 word chapter so take my word for it.**

**I honestly can't believe I managed to finish this thing. It may just be fanfiction, but it's the longest piece I've ever completed, and finishing it gives me hope that the personal novel I'm working on now will be finished as well, and holy fucking shit is that invaluable. And the only reason it's done is because of you; the reader. **

**So, thank you so, so much for reading. You are the Sherlock to my John.**

**Special thanks to: bennyslegs, beautifulfiction, lepetiterik, eryberrie, agoodoldfashionedvillain, thislookslikeajobforme, plueschkissen, saysesydo, forianna, cumberbitchsandwich, alasse-m, causeimazombie, pati-79, adena-k, mildhorror, megaloo, a-cumberbatch-of-cookies, thescienceofobsession, kayjaykayme, frgreen, embersofimagination, ginger8lee, dtektive, idealistinside, andoneforyou, madridke, myheartisahammer, minuaileth75, wendalee, vash137, moranion, loxes, meganbobness, johnwatsonismyspiritanimal, and absolutely any single person who has reviewed or sent me a message. **


End file.
